Traveler

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.

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