The Road Well Traveled

I walk along the sidewalks, of a busy day,

the dog wants to mark every blade of grass.

I look at the cracks and marks,

the weeds refusing to be tamed, 

breaking through the blackened crust.

Everything familiar yet everything different,

as people rush by hands clenched on the wheel.

Frost wrote of taking the road less traveled,

I walk upon well worn streets that converge,

yet never truly meet, nothing is less traveled.

Eyes cast down yet not seeing,

that which opens before their weary feet.

We walk our own roads, 

well traveled though they be,

leaving our own mark like the dog,

to say to the unseeing, “hey! here I am”

in a burst of light that soon fades.

So I walk these streets each day,

looking at the faces that pass.

I know our paths might converge,

as our lives diverge, 

in the cracks and crevices,

we leave behind 

in hearts once touched.

The road may be well traveled,

yet, I make it my own,

in the small daily graces, of life’s joys. 

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