Potholes
Tripping over my very large feet,
I stumbled and dragged you
over slippery buttons
I never meant to push.
My path , you see,
is full of question marks.
For me, they are not potholes,
more like trampolines
that spring toward
evolution.
I live to see the metaphor.
It is a door that opens wide;
a side I may have sadly missed
but cherish once
revealed.
It’s true I step in mud a lot.
My clothes are never fully clean;
my glasses smudged, my sight unclear.
And yet, I saw the glow you carry,
the warm and friendly fire,
the hand outstretched.
Beyond the kindly smile,
however,
I failed to see the posted sign,
“I don’t believe in metaphor.”
And there, so clear to see,
our roads diverged.
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