Another angsty poem

I walk along the narrow way--
border stones straight, even--
until I clear the intersection
temptation, broad and dreary--
but the narrow road leaves no doubt.
Beyond the intersection
the borders begin to fade,
the road becomes a lane,
then a path,
then an overgrown rut,
then grass.
Narrow road now open field,
flowered with shoulds
and expectations
and desires
and somewhere a right way?
Where the anxiety over choice
dissipates to trust
and secure footing.
Does the narrow path still exist
somewhere beneath the weeds?
Or in this fallen field,
do we just do the best we can
to wander toward the sun?

9/21/09