The path led down a wooded hill
beneath a vault of green,
then turned behind a verdant slope,
and went its way unseen.
It seemed to lead to darker woods
with thicker growth entangled,
or, yet again, to brighter groves
with filtered sun bespangled.
He strained to see with questing eyes
which way it might be going,
and bent his mind to change its slant
from wishing into knowing.
The sun that filled the silent space
seemed blinded to his care.
No answer came by sight or sound;
the woods were still as prayer.
No angel came to guide his steps,
no soul he had befriended;
yet he took hope that paths are wise,
and in that hope descended.
Michael Schaub is a daily communicant at his parish in Toronto. A former corporate writer, he can now devote his time to developing the expression of the beautiful English language, whose power he first learned when his mother sat him down at the age of 14 and taught him how to write a sonnet. He was married for 42 years to his friend, mentor, and guide, a woman of deep passion and faith, on whose uniquely chosen Calvary he was privileged to stand for many decades. He often refers to their relationship in his work. At 83, he considers himself a poet in training.