The two paths that crossed in the woods
a couple hundred years ago
became the wagon paths
when the trees were cut for farmland.

Now, the commuters pause at the four way stop
deciding whose turn it is to go next.
The schools buses cautiously proceed
and others stop on the way to the store.

The widow pauses, waiting for her turn
as she remembers being a young mother
on the way to school or the shops.

A visitor passes through
never even thinking
of the lives that cross this intersection.

The fashions have changed
as have the seasons.
The poet still pauses
to ponder Whitman’s friends
in the usual costumes,
and the day comes to an end.