Wayward

by Jo Ann Baldinger

You improvise the maps you need.
From stories of epiphany —
the poet about to break into blossom,
the painter who wept to see an old dog
lift a shaky leg against a lamppost —
I forged a motley field guide
to other ways of being in the world.

My childhood home held no place
for matters of the spirit, no ancient rites
for communing with the soul.

No language for miracles or mysteries,
no words for pondering such possibilities.

The only time I asked, my mother said
that God was a lie invented
for weak and foolish people

and so I never told her that
walking home from the bakery
through late winter slush
with the rye bread I’d been sent for
In its white paper sack

my 8-year-old mind meandering,
drifting free

in a flash I saw that one thought led to another
each somehow linked to all the others
even though they seemed to scatter
in different directions

I saw that everything was connected
and felt my whole body flood
with a sudden, bright gladness.