We wanderers, ever seeking the lonelier way, begin no day where we have ended another day; and no sunrise finds us where sunset left us. Even while the earth sleeps we travel. We are the seeds of the tenacious plant, and it is in our ripeness and our fullness of heart that we are given to the wind and are scattered.
There had never been a cave to hide my heart.
As the strings pulled…
Auspicious had been the woods, the hearth…
The mangled weeded twine beneath my bare-feet…
Had been only make-believe.
An exclusive story for my yearned for retreat.
With a long, last.
A dog, a butterfly.
A road that leads me nowhere.
Roots that lent a sturdy tie.
Slander can only arise from my perched lips.
Though a rail leads the transient way.
Visions of grandeur descend atop granite steps.
No longer does the travel need scornful say.