There are times when I think the best place to be is back.
To go back there, to go back when
to return to the places I’ve already been.

It is safer, to be sure, on the worn and treaded grass: back.

It winks and sways in the light of the sun
inviting, tempting, as if a new journey hasn’t already begun.
But one look back could be my last
one glance behind and lost is the future path.
In the past I would remain, lonely and forgotten
as the present slips by me, wind carrying cotton.

The path left behind is old and worn
back there, I remember, there were a few thorns.
The grass up ahead may be thorny too
but I shouldn’t evade it just because it is new.

To go back there, to go back when
to return to the places I’ve already been is nostalgically weak.
It is safer, to be sure, but cowardly and bleak.

The path up ahead is fresh and in bloom
it waits for me to discover its hue.
So I’ll march right up, without looking back
and take my first steps on the untreaded grass.
I won’t worry if I come across few thorns here and there, for I already know what to do:
I’ll think back on my journey through the old and worn grass and I’ll know how to handle the new.