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Postcards from the Road
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Music
It's a certain kind of freedom
found only to those true to time,
with windswept hair that
smells like sunshine,
in heavy rains and chilly air
breath forming frosted patterns there,
long green rivers and dappled grass,
trees that quiver,
leaves falling fast.
I've camped beneath the open sky,
under the stars and moon that rise,
I've seen far shores and a distant tide
that swept along the waterline,
Filling up the great divide
Separating the wandering heart
from false starts and
catastrophies.
And yet it's just not quite the same.
I feel bereft, but cannot lay
The blame on any single thing.
It's just my soul that does not sing
nor set my mind aflame
the way it did before.
Creativity is a chore and I find
I cannot understand
Why the soft, wet sand
Beneath my feet doesn't feel
the same, my wounds have
healed. And while I kneel
here on the shore, I realize you have
so much more to teach me,
so much more to show,
and I love you more
than you could ever know.
So I'll be home soon,
with photographs and souvenirs
of full moons and exotic beers.
Please know, my love, I am sincere,
and on my way.
I'll be there any day.
