My dad knew directions.
How to make his way
without a compass.
I did not.
I could get lost in my small hometown
when it rained.
A whirling dervish of directional confusion.
How I made it out of the state,
I’ll never know.
Sands drift by,
unceasing,
but from which direction?
It gets in your eyes
preventing a purposeful journey.
Time presses on regardless,
affecting us all,
erasing us by degrees.
Knowing where to go
is imperative, yet
we don’t really know
the destination.
Nipping at the heels like a pup way too attentive, poetry has pursued this word student all his life. The muse has a funny way of showing up when it wants to make its presence known. He can do no other but to follow.