Original Poem: My Times.


Some stories are set in wartime.
There are bombs, drunken songs.
Friends and foes, times of woe. 

Still others are ocean-bound
There are waves and wharfs,
Beaches and bluffs,
sinking and swimming.

Alternatively, I write of the trail. 
Twisty turns over crumbling buildings.
Less blue, more green.

My crow's nest is a hilltop.
Trail mix is preferable to a gun's pop.
I'm not this way for ease. Or for peace.

But for goodness. For trees.
For Time-Tested. And Bridges Mended.
For Grace Given.
And Drifting, Drifting, Drifting

ENDED.

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