The Road Again Poem by Daniel Brick

I came out of my homeland
by my own design and will.
No one gave me any help,
not even a small gift
like an unbreakable cup
to hold the waters of many
other lands, pure, cool, fresh.

I always leave a marker behind
at the fountain or clear-running
stream or even rainy plain
I have discovered for later travelers.
Sometimes I mix fruit, native
to the place, with its water.
It is my habit to give a small gift.

You see how the thing given has
benefited me already. It is like
the spiritual conversations
in Botticelli's paintings. It must
be shared. Perhaps it will lift
the burden my countryman carries
within. I think, why must he suffer,

why must he suffer alone, when I am
on the same road again? 'Let me help
you carry that weight, ' I say to him,
but he is unbending, 'No, it is mine
alone. My soul is too sick to companion
yours. Perhaps in two or three years
we will walk side by side. Perhaps.'

At the gateway, the guardians were generous
with advice. One of them spoke a prayer
to their highest god while then others bowed
their heads. 'May grace descend upon you.
my brothers, ' I said. 'It naturally will, '
he replied. But you must learn the diference
between giving and receiving. The desert will teach you.

If you think you understand these exchanges,
you are profoundly deluded.' The other men
at the gate quietly assented, and one said,
'You will understand. Your journey will end.
We speak in riddles because they are
the only language of the Threshold Experience.'
They reminded me of philosophers, or disguised angels.

So armed with interior truths, I continued on
my way and completed all of my exchanges
without stress or setback. On my way back,
I saw my countryman, a happy and affable man.
The faithful gatekeepers gave me new riddles
that lodged in my mind. And even on the hottest
days, the sun was kind to humans and animals alike.