The Traveler – a poem

The Traveler Stood

Alone on the horizon.

On some windless day,
far above these deep red soils,
the traveler stood
as a column 
alone on the horizon, alone on the land.
His journey nearly done,
spanned all of nine decades.
The ample burs, briars, and thorns
along the trail, tether him
to the coarse underbrush
of his interior gauntlets;
the littered humus of his indifference
simply carried off by scavengers.
Absent the brace, robbed of him by one love lost,
he never buckled, never bent
but still grew thin with old age
like the aroma of twisted deadwood.
Yielding now to the scarp before him,
with no witness to the brands
drawn from his past fires, he waits.
His many scars with many faces, many facets,
resin thick in his youth,
now grow spare as mist.
Nearly forgotten
he silently parts,
exposing bare roots
and finally he defines his place.


What do you think? I'd love to know

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in: Logo

You are commenting using your account. Log Out /  Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )


Connecting to %s