Solitary Path Poem by Suzanne Hayasaki

If I were Frost, I would walk the less-traveled path.
If I were Thoreau, I would go and live deliberately.
If I were Basho, I would travel the narrow road.
If I were Eliot, I would seek out muttering retreats.

But I cannot.
I am not a wanderer.
I am fixed in place.
I accept this fate.

And so I sit and brood.
I conjure up a mood.
I sink within my recollections
Which I sort; I file; I excise.

And while my mind takes its time,
Past conversations rise like yeast,
Warming on the breadboard of my memory
Waiting to be worked and folded and cut.

I know this process as my hands know dough.
I punch out the air; I roll; I stretch; I braid.
I create the shape I wish the loaf to take,
But I must wait for it to reach the proper state.

Baking requires patience.
So does insight.
Thoughts must be sifted.
Reason must be leavened.
Emotions must be allowed to rise
And then be knocked back.

And so within my domestic routine
I will leave room for my soul to breathe
So that in its own time, in its own way
It will release me from its present pain.

If I wait,
If I am still,
If I do not try to hasten the process
If I do not try to escape its pangs
I may come out of this slightly wiser.