Riding the wake of my own
Private zen, taking each curve
In the road as it comes,
The scent of pine filters in
Through the vent in my helmet,
Followed shortly by the scent of
Old dust and despair, the lines between stark and sharp-edged.
And both take me to the home of
My parents, and both are my childhood: growth and hope;
Loss, shame, confusion.
I never have to travel to that
Home again. It is ever with me.
But it no longer hems me in, defines me. The road is not the journey.
I travel on through a forest that belongs to no one, a reservation
That no one wants, and on toward home...there is stillness in travel.
-- 05/30/2014
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