My home is on the road
In the wonder of fresh sights
on sore eyes.
Of leaving and returning
and never staying the same.
From the ancient bricks of London
the regal majesty of a well-worn street
that has carried all manner of feet
for centuries past.
I live for the moment of exhilaration
when the wheels of the plane
separate from cemented Earth
and pass like a feather through the clouds.
And cars and cities
become toys and pin drops of light
receding into darkness and memory.
No matter how gray it is on Earth
above the clouds
it is always blue.
To the wild greens of Ireland
the small towns cradled by mountains
the dunes and sea
the art, the music, the ancient roots
the people around the planet
that speak and look different
but are all the same.
Home is in the adventure,
and I needed to go home.
Too Far From the Sun 