THE WANDERER

The old traveler takes a pause
beneath an oak of age untold
whose roots grasp the ground like giant claws
near to a spring that's clear and bold.

A declining house with roof of tin
broods silently with empty windows,
a remnant of the world" back when"
whose roof flaps when hard winds blow.

For now that wind comes from the west.
It smells of moss, of leaves....of years;
setting my thoughts on a vague quest,
loosening some long still gears.

The air of which the wind is made
did not come this way just for me
brought here to this middling shade
showing breezes are wild and free.

When done with me where will it go?
Over these hills then out to sea
to the places where hurricanes grow
and with such storm come back to me?

Or will it cross the sea to land
traversing Europe then India
whispering by cathedrals, grand
then maybe south eastern Asia?

And on its ventures who can know
how many people breathed it in and out
or how many trees its carbon helped to grow
as it travelled randomly all about?

The folks who once lived in this shack
although gone now for a long time,
might a molecule of one breath have come back
and prodded me to write this rhyme?