Drove by the old house today.
A stranger in waiting, sold the shame.
Thus far, looming sadness hung in the earthy frame.
In the snow encrusted trail.
Further on down a humble gravel road.
Sitting on a rocky fence.
Composed centuries before, in haste, by a homesteader’s plight.
I had become slack about what steered me here.
That is until my seated bones turned stale and cold.
And, unchained branches of nature reminded me…
‘there are stories yet to be told.’
I drive these back roads…
reminded of home.
Long, desperate, going places that have passed along.
Gritty browns with nameless…greens.
A picturesque, quaint, scene.
I have aged like farm-stand cheddar.
Tart but tasteful. with a woodsy trace.
Though life has sped up.
I manage to find a slower pace.
In a quest for deeper appreciation…
I delve further.
Listening for a weathered sound.
There are no wrong turns…
In my veiled valleys.
Just moss under my wheels.
And, a love for nature’s folly.