Journey

Just beyond the mountains of ice tips,
a valley of freedom grows away from human beings

On a river bank
in a sandy den
a she-wolf rests
with her litter of four against her fur

Up in the pine trees, the owl sleeps
till the moon sneaks out
to hunt into the darkened day

Rustling leaves greet the flying squirrel
the scurrying critters searching for nuts

Newborn birds flick their soft wings
to set off on a quest to survive
that lies ahead

Ever lasting wild flowers that bud
for the coming spring
and slumbers under the earth
from the biting cold

Yellow befriends orange and pink
to create a masterpiece of the sky
free for all that wish to see

So it maybe, that every life, has a journey to travel

Rusty Red

I was eleven when I could drive

I had been raised on this milking farm alongside my strong mother
my hard working father
my elder brothers.

It was summer's time when I sat
for the first time
on the rusted red truck's driver seat.

I was a farming boy
who could drive a car
years before the children in school.

I was frightened
I was scared
but my father instructed me
quiet so well.

"Check the mirrors, Henry." he'd say
"Release the clutch, and step lightly on the gas petal."

I'd reach my short chicken legs to the gas
and with my boot's toe
pressed forward.

The truck moved forward a good six feet
and I, a farmer's son, squealed in delight.

I rode that truck across the vast corn feilds
I drove it when I had earned my license
and I kept it in my backyard
so that my son and daughters
would enjoy the company
of Rusty Red

Spinning

Around a circle of wheels
I peddle harder to reach the top of the mighty hill

on the left, a meadow of high grass that sways by the breeze
the right, the pasture of painted saddle horses that gallop by the tickle of the foals' lips

Pushing harder, gravity takes pity
and lets me reach the top point.

A second of rest
before I bike on
down the hill
to the upcoming park

along the wooded forest
children play on the slides
like monkeys in a open zoo

The baseball diamond is loud today
the guys are playing their game,
the one that they've been playing since third grade

outfield turns to see me roll by
his brown hair messed and tangled
a smile of interest spreads his smeared face

Only a yard away, he waves in greeting
and my heart flutters
before I wink back as I travel on down the dirt path

The swamp engulfs either side
as I peddle onward
happiness growing
as the turtles jumped into the water below
and the crane floats away from his spot on a croaked lower branch

escaping the watery jungle
the rocky shore that borders Old Peoples' small house glows on a nearby patch of soft fresh cut grass
Mr. Old Man is planting in his vegetable garden
Mrs. old Women is reading a worn novel on the everlasting porch
and their shaggy elderly dog rests in the apple tree's shade

Onward I go
biking across the country
my mind spinning
and spinning
and spinning...