Drifting

If in the diaries of these drifting days
we could be swept above ourselves,
allowed to sail the currents of summer
without the burdens of daily chore

I might see your smile blowing to me
over the plains of Ireland,
or feel your hand touching mine
as we leave the Louvre for Spain.

I may find you reading poetry
at Caffe Florian in Venice.
The moose we saw roving the footpaths.

Or if we are found by western winds
I may sail myself beside you,
cooling your skin in the last heat of afternoon
as you lay naked across soothing rocks.

Whether discovering parrots in Africa
or wading through the crowds of Tokyo
we can always be content in knowing that
the most important things are never distant,

transformed by ardor and a passage
intrinsic in nature, never far from home.
We live and seek the nurture of flowers
and the peace of an afternoon stroll.

There is an existence that brings us
above any woe or complacent discontent
where we can always feel the cool rush
of a swimming hole in the Blue Ridge Mountains.

The days of toil often heavy
forgetting the promise that carries
herself beside us each day,
the breath she seals within us,

but we can understand her burden
and feel the wake of wistfulness
gaining full appreciation in her path,
a road left unkempt in the heart of progress.

I’m am humble before these steps
but grow eager when you touch me
because I know time
grows peaceful, and we will

find the last sunset of each night
floating above us in a field of grass
where we lay dozing between meals,
the scent of honeysuckle in air.