Children would congregate in circles,
line up to do cartwheels
and criss-cross along the path.
The road curved, twisted
like curls. Like fingers,
it’d branch into five different directions.
One bent towards the east like an elbow;
another narrowed towards the north like a neck.
The road was their stage. With each visit,
roles would switch, dynamics would enter
and depart from different sides. Summer months,
they were friends. She’d kiss him on the cheek and skip
to the west where the grass grew past her knees.
Some seasons, they were lovers. Holding hands,
they’d walk down the path, up the hill that overtopped
the sea like a patio.
When the road was coated with snow
and left unplowed, the couple stayed
cooped in her house. The tea kettle
would cough steam; the radio would
whistle his tunes. Sprawled out
on the couch, she’d cradle her cup of chai
and watch him drive off.
Off to another house,
to see a similar face that smiled as he
plowed a new path.