Pilgrim Path

This blog is the work of a seeker and poet. Walking stick in hand, I head out into the world, not of the world, but in the world. My words and my friends carry me along and light the pilgrim path of spiritual journeys.

Thursday, February 14, 2008


Briskly on this winter’s morning,
my feet barely skimming
the icy surface of the ground,
at last I reached the garage door.

The key, that tiny thin strip of metal
instantly froze my entire hand
as I stood there jiggling
to make it fit the lock.

Finally enough curse words had passed my lips
to satisfy Beelzebub’s minions.
Opening the door, I threw myself inside,
and just as quickly slammed the large door shut.

I needed a few minutes to catch my breathe,
so I leaned against the heavy door,
blew into my hands, closed my eyes
and tugged my knit hat on a little tighter.

In that blessed moment of peace,
the unique scent of old books passed by my nose.
Taken aback, I opened my eyes and saw the stacks of books
and boxes of books to which I’d become blind over time.

I remembered the spring that Uncle Walt stole my poetic ear,
the summer I journeyed by elephant on “The Road to Agra,”
the haunted fall of “The Handmaid’s Tale”
and the winter I trekked, “Thirty Leagues to Boston Town.”

Years from now, when old stories are told,
I often wonder which ones they’ll tell about me.
I’d be grateful to hear the one that ends,
“His garage smelled like a library.”

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Blogger H.M. said...

Oh yeah.


3:41 PM  
Blogger akash said...

Peace comes in unexpected moments .
Smell of books is divine .
So is your poem .

8:28 AM  

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