“All journeys have secret destinations of which the traveler is unaware.”
I sit by my books in the dusty light and think of bygone things of a lake and a lawn and a school and a song and the windmills that weathered our spears
I sit beside banners of harlequin hue and think of curious things of heraldry sacred, silly writ consecrated, and an Empire named for the good
I sit in the snow by a streetlamp lit and think of lonely things of a fresh slap of paint over echoes I know and of memories gone with the dew
I sit in the shade in the garden of stones and think of mournful things of a poet erased by the daze of thin hope and a music drowned deep by decision
I sit on the floor with the dirt and the grime and think of foul things of a robber and shyster who preens like a tiger and whose grease musters all of the fleas
I sit by the crust of an asphalt patch and think of evil things of a dog and a tree and two slugs in the breech and the damnable crowing of Lies
I sit on the hill in the mist and the rain and think of distant things old deeds told anew to the fruit of our vines, and spun with the glamour of telling
I sit by the window and watch for the dawn and think of hopeful things every year a new autumn to knit eyes with fire, wind to the blood, need to the gloaming
I sit in my chair and I hold my son and think of marvelous things of pines over water of grace without seeking of our own chance encounter. Real life is meeting.