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the prophet, Isaiah, proclaimed
ah but the devil is said to hate a crooked path
as always preferring the obvious
we yearn for an easing
on our single minded journey
a straightening
yet the bump, the twists,
the hairpin turns
are the trip's intake of breath
children yelp in joy
on roller coasters roads
urging their father to drive faster
each hill a swoosh
and swivel
of celebration
as each pebble in your shoe
on a woodland walk
is a little reckoning
let heaven be a holy mess
streets not paved in gold
but pot hole lined and limitless
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