The Winding Journey

By Sarah de Caen

We call it a journey, this walk through hours,

 yet how often do we pause to ask:

 Is it a road, or a circle?

 Do our steps lead outward, or return us home?

The maps we draw are illusions,

 lines upon water, erased by tide.

 We chase goals as if they are mountains,

only to find horizons to move with us.

Choice—what fragile word! 

Do we choose, or are we chosen by our choices?

 Is the river free when it rushes to the sea,

 or does gravity whisper the command?

And yet—

in moments of stillness,

 when laughter spills without reason,

 when tears come as prayer,

 we sense a compass deeper than thought,

 guiding us where no map dares show.

We ask, Am I drifting or arriving? 

Yet perhaps both are true.

 Every detour is a teacher,

 Every delay is an unseen gift.

What we call mistakes

 may be footprints of grace.

What we call destiny

 may love wearing another name.

The journey is not a line,

 but a spiral unfolding inward,

 drawing us ever closer

 to the center we already hold.

By Sarah de Caen