Pilgrim's Progress

Pilgrim's Progress

( with apologies to John Bunyon )

Each step splashes

Another puddle of water

Or another pile of wet leaves,

Creating a moist rhythm

Dripping through the forest.

A traveler plods ahead

Knowing each splash

Against his wet, worn shoes

Is one less step

He will have to make later.

The winding path is obscured by trees

Waving their colorful

And not quite dead leaves,

Obscured by hills that barricade

The pilgrim's view of the horizon.

But not knowing the path cannot stop him.

He is only a pilgrim.

He cannot go to the left

Or the right

Or turn around

Because the path will not let him.

So he splashes one more puddle,

Kicks one more pile of leaves,

And stirs up a bit more mud and dust.

For he is only a pilgrim

And a pilgrim never knows . . . .