“Every
man, every woman, carries in heart and mind the image of the ideal place, the
right place, the one true home, known or unknown, actual or visionary. A houseboat in Kashmir, a view down Atlantic Avenue in
Brooklyn, a gray gothic farmhouse two stories high at the end of a red dog road
in the Allegheny Mountains, a cabin on the shore of a blue lake in spruce and
fir country, a greasy alley near the Hoboken waterfront, or even, possibly, for
those of a less demanding sensibility, the world to be seen from a comfortable
apartment high in the tender, velvety smog of Manhattan, Chicago, Paris, Tokyo,
Rio, or Rome — there's no limit to the human capacity for
the homing sentiment.” ~ Edward Abbey, Environmentalist/Author
I was flying Across the deep And I saw the delicacy Of life Wrinkles on the faces Of the old So pure they glistened Like awards The joy of children Running with abandon Their laughter ringing Like chimes in the wind I saw the soft moving waves Across the sea And the trees releasing Their rainbow leaves Birds joined me on my flight And I saw the surface of their wings Adorned with patterns Glorious and unfurled I saw the tears of the sad And the smiles of the glad The suffering in mourning And the celebration of birth As I descended toward the ground Slowly, slowly, softly I saw the gentle grass of the field And smelled the fresh earth It was a perfect landing © 2018 Timothy Moody
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