Pilgrim

Oh, weary pilgrim,
Who traced the lines upon your haggard face,
What hardship robbed you of the wanderlust that
Would not fade?

What will you do now?
start a family
build a home
tell stories by the hearth?

No, pilgrim.
You belong in the spans of land where no man has ever been,
Sailing the current of sunset away from friends
And kin.

In valleys
Where the echoes trap themselves bouncing between the hills,
In plains of prairie grass where the spiraling wind
Will kill.

Do not
Lose your heritage in strong roots boring down,
But loose it in the wild upon hooves that beat
The ground.

Oh, weary pilgrim,
You have no choice to join the generations.
Your home lies on the road under the sky's
Sharp rotation.

--Ryan Healy

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