Your Road Poem by Sveta Guralnik

The dirt is dry.
I want to cry.

The dirt that fell
From the soles of your slippers.
I stepped into it
With my bare foot.
It felt like bread crumbs,
Brittle and dry.

And I wanted to cry.
To say: do not go.
Stay.

We were eating a cabbage pie
And oranges.
I said: if you wish, go.

The only way
To say: don't leave,
Is to say: go.
Sometimes.

The only way
To say: I will stay,
Is to answer:
I will go.

And then
The door,
Wooden and broad.
The dirt,
The precious
Crumbs
Of your road.