GOING

Walking this trail beside the stream
among the ferns and evergreens
I smell the skunky stink of bog
and spice of rotting cedar log.
Familiarity’s embrace
makes this path a soothing place,
but longing for discovery
of unknown vistas tugs at me.

There’s only so far I can hike,
so now I ride upon my bike
along this little winding strip
of broken asphalt to the ship
that waits to carry me away
to other shores and other days.
But still I yearn for greater scale,
impatient with the speed of sail.

And so I wait to board a plane
and fly above the clouds so fast
and far and high that I can gain
no knowledge of what trickles past
below me, or of how the place
I go connects to where I’ve been.
Will those who live there know my face
if someday I should come again?