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.
about the writer.
“Words are only postage stamps delivering the object for you to unwrap” (George Bernard Shaw)