As the End Draws Near

In the morning

I got up from my room

and walked to the easel.

It was only

a few steps.

And yet

year by year

it grew a little farther.

The easel

was always in the same place.

Grown old,

I painted a road.

A road that bends once,

seems to break for a moment,

and joins again.

On that road

an old man was standing.

I drew the line.

It did not join

in one stroke.

My hand shook.

I drew it again.

It strayed a little.

When I was young

I would have erased it.

I would have drawn it again and again

until it was straight.

The tip of the brush

went to that place.

The old man in the painting asked,

“What is it

you mean to fix?”

I

pointed to where the line had strayed.

The old man

looked down at it.

“That too

is the road.”

I

drew the brush back.

The next morning.

I walked

those few steps again.

They were no nearer

than yesterday.

I stood before the easel.

The road I drew yesterday

was still there,

strayed part and all.

The road

was going forward

in that shape.

I

set only today's two feet

quietly

before that road.