Resting

I thought the journey was ending.

For years
the road had climbed;
rock, loose gravel,
the slow switchback
of effort.

Sometimes I sat down
on a flat stone.

Then I rose again.

There is a moment
when the body believes
it cannot continue.

But the road ended
before that.

There was no announcement.
Only a few people
standing nearby,
speaking quietly.

Afterward
they went their separate ways.

I remained a little longer.

From where I stood
another path was visible
leading away
through the same hills.

I had believed
the first road
was the whole of it.

But this is the mistake.

The path does not end.
Only our belief
that it should.