In middle age
you find
the bridges are burned
there’s no going back
a long climb to the top
of a lonely hill
the sharp descent is
quick and foreboding
the road disappearing
in a thicket of lost hope
a dust of memory
choking back
tears.
(Previously published in The Poet's Porch, Sept.2000)
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem