Incessant rain is one detour, shunting you away from the long autumn walk you meant to take. Instead of crisp leaf crackle underfoot, here are flash floods, thick mud that remembers being a dirt road, puddles deep as the dream of a lake.
A detour. And why does it frustrate you so? A detour means that once upon a time you had a destination in mind. You were going through the forest to the castle, or the fair, or to the market to sell the old cow when—
A detour means: This is where a new story begins. You run to escape the woodsman, the witch, the wolf. Or some stranger offers to sell you magic beans. And there you are, on a detour—in the house of dwarves or bears or in a world of hungry giants and golden eggs.
You weren’t born to grumble, wonder if the road will flood, worry about being lost or late. You were meant for this instead. So shout for joy—A detour? Sure! This is where adventure unrolls itself thick as a magic carpet floating over a road you didn’t ever plan to take.
Puff Of Smoke Poems 