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.
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about the writer.“Words are only postage stamps delivering the object for you to unwrap” (George Bernard Shaw) past tense.
January 2019
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