by Chris Farago.
I leave leaves where I walk
In case I need to find my way home.
They are mostly maple, with a few oak and elm
Scattered among them for variety.
One of the leaves has a map on the back
Leading to my childhood home. Another, the route
To my first college dorm room, another to my current address.
The maps are hand drawn and not to scale.
“Why not keep the leaf maps with you?”
I am asked all the time. It’s an archaic system,
Yes, but the wind seems to know which map I need when.
I’ve been using it for years and have yet to be failed by it.
But then you said to me, “Do not draw the map
To find me on a leaf; write it on the very wind itself,
For it is much more everlasting than those leaves could ever be.”
And so I did.
The summer breeze, scented with waffle cones and honeysuckle,
Brings me to you, as does the late-blooming jasmine,
As do the pines and the apple tarts and the sweet red wines.
They call me Map-maker now, having learned of my gift
Through the daily trades. Several schools of cartography
Have asked me to lecture on the subject; I told them
Any lecture I give would be short:
“Each map must have a viable center.”