“Is the glass half-full or empty?” I ask her as I fill it.
“It doesn’t really matter…Pretty sound your bound to fill it.”
…..I had been dampened, such as, a cotton towel left in a June rain. Still, unsanctioned…and moist. Waiting among the firing flies…
I had no airs to put off…
No need for complaint.
However, in this wet climate…I am not a saint.
I have heard a hundred degrees over the limits…
I have heeded the warnings.
On the road to weather’s hell…to infinity and back…
As my cup began to teeter with drink
All she could muster, again and again…
“Be careful…You’ll be bound to spill it.”
He had never been an intended farmer
And, perhaps, Mr. Frost knew he never would be
Unintentionally up in the notches…working the land with hands calloused by tragedy
Cursed tractors, sullen cows, an unconditional hell’s paradise
Baskets of discoveries…In one’s own unmade garden
Trained to farm the land…Once gone…
I had no intention of going back.
Searching the pavement for creativity
poking about the neon
digging in dollar signs and dimes for deliberate self-discovery
The writings on the wall were slipping away into graffiti
So, maybe Mr. Frost had been an intended farmer, after all
His seeds of thought burning a hole in my pocket
His travels into struggle…
Left open for me green fields of self-discovery
Two wheels, and you can smell fresh mulch…
you can detect new creosote.
Two wheels, and freedom becomes less elusive,
less noticeable in a harried world.
Two wheels, and you can hear all that needs to be heard.
Two wheels, and you can go places…
never remember the names
never remember the drifting.
Two wheels, and no remembering the reason for going.
Always understanding why you came.