What Starts

by Mary Saracino

What starts is never what arrives;

the eager door swings open

hopeful feet step on stones from here to there;

we traverse the long road from home to hinterland

wearing shoes dusty with dreams

a tattered coat, a hat soggy from sleet or dew

our bellies hungry for bread, meat, comfort;

we begin the journey as pilgrims

befriending fields & lonely mountaintops

biting brambles & whimsical wildflowers

beneficent bees & boisterous birds;

we sing to towering oaks & thorny roses

swollen rivers & murky lakes

chilling winds & replenishing rains

biting snow & blistering sun;

we end the journey as refugees

longing for where we started

uncertain of where we have arrived

our skin tougher, more wrinkled

our hearts opened, yet weary

our hopes & aspirations forever altered

by the weather, the whims of chance

the kindness or cruelty of strangers

the losses & joys, laughter & tears

gathered or spilled along the way.