the maze

Paused at another crossroads together,
our breath mingles in the frosty air.
Goosebumps rise on my bare arms,
a dull ache spreads to the tips of my fingers.

I'm panting from the effort it took to get this far,
but adrenaline from our flight fights the fear flowing through me.
That fear rises and falls at each twisting turn.
Dangers lurking up ahead,
though usually revealed by your advancing presence as simple spectres of my own mind,
cause constant apprehension.
Growing fat as I grow weary.

My muscles tense, ready to leap according to your next direction.

"Fight or flight?!", my nervous system screams.

But it's not a crossroads at all!
No dichotomous dilemma,
but a gordian knot of possible paths,
circling out and over one another,
too interbred, too intertwined for me to unravel.

Bare directions seem mis-matched to the complexity of this task.
Left or right?
Up or down?
No lacing pattern dances as mysteriously before the eyes.
No portrait weaver's magic matches yours.

This is the maze that you created,
you are its master,
and you maintain it.

"Focus on my hand".
You call out my name.
I reach now,
clutching your firm, reassuring grip.

I stare and stare,
losing the high walls and tortured pathways of this arboreal prison
as my eyes trace the patterns of your palm.
Life-line, cut short
only to begin again.
Heart-line endless,
wrapped, encircling, carved deep with pain.

You have survived the maze.
You have mastered it.
In the paths of your hands
I've nothing to fear from it.