The Road Back
Sometimes I think
that memory relives
the old belief
that all roads led to Baghdad.
Who could think it strange
that in old age,
David the king
wrote psalms in the imagery
of David, the shepherd boy,
left behind so long ago -
recalling how he led
his flocks to green pastures,
and beside the still waters.
Sometimes I think
that in moments of memory,
all thoughts lead home,
and although the distance
cannot be anything but the same,
the road back is always shorter
than the way we came.
