Plainfield, revisited

I used to know where that road went

In the tangled sheen and hollow,

gnarled wood and vine dressed

in spring's best greenery

Drawn over it like a veil

Sooty chipped cobblestones at the

forgotten garden's wall,

Climbing, laboriously, up the hill

on creaky legs before turning at the bend

and looking back

At me.

The forgiving smile of an old neighbor,

from the old neighborhood now barely remembered

Hoping for that glint of recognition,

but not expecting it, and not minding much

- except deep inside.

Where they'd dared to paint the picture of that warm welcome:

the prodigal son made good,

Brought in and fed tea and cookies

over a warm fire and tales

of the Life Over There.

I knew him, once.

And the road, the road remembers too:

My footsteps under that same wood,

and a younger green,

The cobblestones then so inviting,

and my feet taking up their welcome,

to plunge into those limitless possibilities

of figuring everything out

I did, and other roads as well.

And more, more than I can remember,

until the tangle of roads and memories

lay thicker than these woods,

dressed in the faded recollection

of last year's blackened leaves

- where did they all lead?

The road?

It looks back too, turning at the bend

and tries not to mind while I mutter

my Robert Frost excuses about roads not taken

and miles, yes, miles

to go before I sleep

No longer, but I used to know

where that road went, and still wonder:

which of my tangled memories lie

at its end

(I was going through my journal, and came across this one, from a while

back, from one evening in Pittsburgh. I was walking back through the

old neighborhood, up along the edge of Schenley Park on the way back

to the conference hotel. It's a bit impressionistic, but I'm fond of

the repeated metaphor, so I thought I'd indulge myself and forward in

on to you.)

(The road in question is Schenley Ave, leading up, away from our old

house and into the park)