The Path

The old path to my cottage is paved
with chicken bones, owl pellets,
crushed legs in weasel droppings,
broken axles, broken promises,

blood stained wood chips, lost kisses.
I turn from the old path
and focus on the steep one
that goes on up valley

and into the clouds on Farewell Ridge,
the path paved with plum blossoms,
bird songs, a mythical beast
that speaks in a familiar accent.

My old feet don't want the steep,
but I still watch it from my kitchen window.