Go forward, mapless. Give up searching, for directions are everywhere. Watch for patterns: Those moving clouds, the grass clippings dusted across the cobblestones, the pigeons on the cathedral roof, the swirl of seeds the old man scatters from his paper sack, the steps in the dance his little granddaughter dances across the lawn, twirling her skirt wide and dreaming of bells and umbrellas while she waits for him to finish feeding his birds.
Her dance doesn’t look like directions, at first. Skirt swirls wide, fabric billows and collapses on itself and billows out again, over and over as she spins. Shadows dance across her path—clouds, her own body, the small shadows of pigeons as they come to land for those seeds, circle, rise again to the spires.
Make this all the map you need.
Puff Of Smoke Poems 