I must remind myself that nothing is certain,
and potential is a living thing.
I must think of lists of good things in my life
and wander through the bad with a
cloak of gratitude.
This is not some new age babble,
it is the momentum between footsteps.
Trust is older than the faint lines around my
mouth, and too much sitting.
Trust is this poetry that nobody ever sees.
Trust is letting go of should and going after can.
Will I look back fondly at these years?
Or hang my head at waste,
my mind fixes itself to a haunted future.
Who will I be?
And the crux is that all I have is this moment to decide,
and the decision, like a fork in the road,
matters as much as the pollen drifting in the wind.
What did the cheshire cat say to Alice?
“It doesn’t matter where you go.”
“You’ll get there….if you walk long enough.”