There's a Path

There’s a path out behind the house,

following the power lines and the phone lines

in from the neighbor’s place, much grown over now

and swampy. It’s the original road, my wife tells me,

she who’s lived here her whole life, knows everyone,

the original road laid out long before anyone

felt a need for his own drive way, his own road

to camp, and built it, easier access now,

in and out, a private drive among the trees and not

a right of way shared with three others. And so . . .

we don’t know our neighbors anymore,

these new folks, three or four owners hence,

next door and beyond, rarely see them except

through the woods, investigating their noises,

and them, ours, I expect, little else in common.

The path is still there, passable in a single file,

and still goes both ways, but unimpeded by our feet

trudging here to there or theirs, there to here,

the grass grows high and the roots stick up, ready

to trip us, small seedlings take hold and dig in,

and water pools in the sunken shallows, growing stagnant, 

toppling trees to leave their branches obstructing passage,

ours and theirs. That path out behind the house, like time,

much grown over and still over growing, separates us,

strangers meant to travel the same path together

now seeking ease, convenience, and privacy,

a right of way unshared in our passing years.