Now that I'm retired, Agnes and I have more time to travel ... and less money to do it with. Bummer. When you live in the environs of Washington, DC, and want to see the rest of the country, pretty much everything is to the west; hence today's poem:
by Linda Pastan
Though the landscape subtly changes,
the mountains are marching in place.
The grasses take on the fading
yellows of the sun,
and cows with their sumptuous eyes
litter the fields as if they had grown there.
We have driven for hours
through bluing shadows,
as if the continent itself leaned west
and we had no choice but to follow the old ruts-
the wagons and horses, the iron snort
of a locomotive. We are the pioneers
of our own histories, drawn
to the horizon as if it waited just for us
the way the young are drawn
to the future, the old to the past.
I like the line about us being "the pioneers of our own histories." And I especially like the thought of our new ability to pick up and drive to where exciting things await ... like our grandchildren.
Have a good day. Come back tomorrow for Musical Monday. More thoughts then.