Taking off
along the forked road
cataloging by sense
and memory
what nature allows.
Day hikes, some call them,
or strolls,
that from die-hard hikers,
I call them wanderings.
There have been for me
beaches and sunrise
beaches and sunset
creeks longing for rain
and rivers filled with sorrow
paths and no paths
stones sculpted under feet
and wind and grit
stones, newly emerged from the earth,
raw and ankle twisting.
There have been for me
knee-high grasses and
sky-high redwoods
light falling through them
on mating bees
as stage lights fall on divas.
There have been delicious smoke
from chimneys
acrid smoke from paper mills,
everywhere in the world
paper mills stink.
Each day a wandering
as the tether lengthens
motherâs fingertips
the edges of a fenced yard
city limits
all expected
and then re-wandering
as all domestic creatures do
toward home.
One day all tethers shall
release, break free.
Where then shall I wander,
and can I find home?