Of faith I learned when a boy, 
squinty-eyed, afraid, nick-named,
in the pews of St. Joe's. My father
beside me but I did not know
what he believed of the faith
we were taught and held. 
He took it with him when, 
years ago, he went away.

Of our true selves we were not taught
being little important, not necessary
to the mystery of our learned faith -
dogmas, creeds, ritual formulas,
words upon wearying words -
received, memorized, recited.

Of our true selves we did not know
were not allowed to search and find,
to wander off the path of saints
to travel dark adventurous ways.
It did not matter who we were
mattered not for they did not care
whether we artists were or poets
seeking truth in the stars or our dreams.

It has taken too long to come to this
the road not taken, the unworn path.
It seems I see a light out there
where I have never been before.
Is it, I wonder, a light behind a door
opened now, beckoning, that may close?
Is it a trumpet sound I hear out there
somewhere in the woods, a call?

Perhaps I'll step a foot onto the briared path
then maybe another into the dark wood
where scarcely can I see by the evening light
the way, the open door, the light within.
__________________________________________

Portland, Oregon - October 22, 2021