Meandering through the mazes of my mind,
dusty roads from somewhere call my name--
past fields of corn, parched by the the summer rays--
past cattle lowing for their evening grain,
in single file as they move briskly
toward their barnyard.
.
These roads have never felt the warm caress of tar.
Deep ruts are no cause for concern.
Lining the embankments, are the pines--
gnarled and twisted casting grotesque
shadows in the sand.
I wander on, my bare-feet stirring dust along the way--
a gentle breeze teases my tresses.
I brush at tendrils,--
tickling my cheeks like butterfly wings.
A frog cries out for rain.
Abruptly--the harsh sound
of the clock beside my bed
beams me back.
Reality rushing in.
Next time, I'll make it home.
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