Longing for the country of a cold, dry New Mexican desert, a long, lush California drive, a Wyoming steppe, a Utah spring, from the mounts to the valleys low, I’ve been there and done that and they’ve shook me so
I know this unforced separation is my own lust to live so many lives in this time that I’ve but one to do, compounded by The Great Worry that as ages come and I long back, the days of my young gun waned, the bitters to the march of time taking the heart, I’ll wish for some pasts and pasts, to strike out and live different
I long for him, poor boy, what a thrill, so dumb, so free. But give it all back? No, not all, not many, but may a few, to remark a life for the vagabond he was, the pictures show, such fervency, too But blessed he’s been, and blessed he’ll be, more fortunes to find, more aches to suffer, more of me yet to become and yet to be
And sure soon again a long, lonesome drive through nothing will be the contented path, and for a bit of the man who will soon enough look back again with more laments of The Great Worries, a stretch of peace will quell the longing for repose of quietude and relief
I'm busy working on my blog posts. Watch this space!