Like beginnings, the endings
Do not come at home
The journey is finished
When we no longer roam
There’s a point when we look back
To recall what was seen
And a little remorse
For what might have been
Like beginnings, the endings
Do not come at home
The journey is finished
When we no longer roam
There’s a point when we look back
To recall what was seen
And a little remorse
For what might have been
Or is it just a sprig
An ephemeral growth
A life spanning a single desert rain
Beside a rock worn smooth
By the long dead river
Which cut a chasm wall
Aeons ago
Once under an overturned rowboat
On chill Swedish tundra
Fending off the mosquitoes
For just one more word
Before midnight’s nightfall
And a welcome sleep
But what this writer loves
Is a table, a chair and a view
Overlooking the sea, perhaps
Or a river, and its teeming scene
She came into my life
Throwing a lifeline
In a turbulent time
She will never know
Nor can I explain
To her or anyone
The many ways
Her words touched me
Her songs sang to my spirit
It’s a city fair
A city rare
Which once was quite contrite
A journey starts not with packed bags
Walking out the door
But once you are well underway
And begin to settle in