My life – unlike Theseus’s – does not depend
on where I turn. His labyrinth
a set of tricks, unpredictable chaos,
he had to guess the pattern, discern false paths,
saved by cleverness – a thread –
a woman’s trick, that thread.
In my labyrinths –
mown path in summer New York grass,
painted canvas in a holy wood,
stones at Grace Episcopal atop a San Francisco hill –
I do not guess: I do not know the way
but the way knows me,
I twirl through turns
as in a dance that teaches me its steps,
I pause at center, then the path swings out,
keeping me in play.
A single iteration, tessellated,
a complex path, with mental bifurcation points –
the set direction of the foot explodes
mind’s limits. Swaying,
I string my spirit thread,
Labyrinthine is the first poem in the book: Above the Eastern Treetops, Blue by Libby Falk Jones.
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