I am driven by such things as those that drive a hobo to a train
tall grass waving in a Midwestern field, August dry and gold
against the back drop of proud Rocky Mountain peaks
cutting clouds to shreds as the dusk paints red upon their drape.
Cornfields seem to stretch forever into a distant horizon
unreachable, but always appearing as if there is an end.. to an endless view
tall Southern pines pointing towards purple heavens of October
sloped up an Alabama hillside before giving way to hardwoods
leafed in a green only God could keep before they die in brilliant colors
as late September reminds the crickets it's their final chance to clack
I have seen the ocean's breath, its misty fog filtering sweet dawns
on the final edge of land where the gulls caw as they land upon soft sand
the mighty roar of a sick surf, stormed and violent enough to push the people
westward over an aged causeway that might as well be foreign land.
I have had the honor to live among hearty New Englanders
who don't say chowder quite like you, still proud of their suspenders
pushing fingers into straps before a pull and then a snap
when the final bucket was unhooked from a glorious sugar maple.
Yes, I have seen the way the colors change through a focused lens
the beauty of a single moment, I've been spellbound since knee high
as all around me I hear voices, voices of great joy, yet still the angels cry.
I am blessed, here writing this, it might appear I am alone
I am never alone, I am with you, you who are
driven by such things that drive a hobo to a train.