pilgrim's progress.

many miles under my feet
the mountains relaxed their shoulders
and became yawning plains
stretched with striped sheets
red barns and white farmhouses
dotting the horizon 
like monopoly pieces
​
yet the skies are the same as home 
and
my thoughts drift like 
the stratus clouds overhead
just as lazy as the fields beneath
beds tucked in for winter
the matters of home take to hibernation
tucked deep into tomorrow’s pages
if but for this brief sabbatica
l
the weary pilgrim can find rest.