on the path of courage

it's not always the one

that the greater society flatters

that in the short or long run

matters

on the path of courage:

there's the city tax collector and the forest bridge troll

collecting a toll

in relative obscurity

but at a steady pace

sometimes dressed modestly or all crimson and lace;

and there's the unheralded stage hands

preparing a venue for various bands

watching an early audience file in and take their seats

in anticipation of musical beats

which might help them make it through another day,

and some self-question if they'll stay

as the going seems personally rough,

yet they rally, dig deeper, stay tough

like the musical King

or Queen

or Prince

partaking in our great moveable feast

that passes from the most important among us

to the mouths of the very least;

and into the hallway mirror we often gaze and wonder:

does it matter if the world is silent or howling like thunder?

can we stay simple and recognize the magic of an overhead sky?

can we listen with our hearts to hear the world's brave babies cry?

and we cry as well 

and we laugh and we succeed and we fail

looking into our palm and seeing the nail

but knowing it's not bent

and it won't be bent

and we're spending our lives together, 

but we're not spent

on the path of courage,

where the handmade mozzarella melts 

and we tighten our memory of leather belts

searching for that perfect hole to fasten and hold,

being curious in spite of it all

as we're growing old

on the path of courage.