Writing a Poem

I do not know who will be there when I start,
so the walk begins with feet of stone —
I did not think we were so far apart.

I carry something forward into the dark:
vague expectations, kindnesses, small rocks of hope.
I do not know who will be there when I start.

I lay these words, ungainly, in the small blue cart
whose wheels pull at ruts of mud laid over bone.
I did not think we were so far apart.

The peace we seek we cannot find. These arts
are blind and guideless, none of it owned.
I do not know who will be there when I start,

but journey on, heedless, headless, aware
of nothing but the distant cries of home.
I did not think we were so far apart.

I push to the clearing, at the place where leaves part,
and there he sits, shrunken, and forlorn, and oh
I do not know who will be there when I start.
I did not think we were so far apart.

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About David

Prone to musing and to being prone. Father to two, writer, engineer.
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