Caminante, no hay camino,
Se hace camino al andar.
Traveler, there is no path,
Paths are made by walking.
– Antonio Machado
Making a Path
The red bud is blood red at eye level
From my bay window looking out on the wood.
The paths are shadowed and hidden well
From here and there where I have stood
Trunks and branches sway and waggle
Dancing, romancing: ole Sol, if I could
A vee of geese fly high above in a gaggle
Red birds chirp and cheep a happy song
Glorious here by the wood away from the haggle
Soon, soon, spring… it won’t be long
Paths of gold, rainbows too
Passing o’er the throng
On my way home; to you.
– Robert Pennington Price