When feet long to wander
the only choice is surrender.
Slipping home into my pocket
I take to the road,
gypsy dreams
my map and guide.
Stopping only when fancy
strikes, sustenance comes
in the gifts of nature and man,
comfort in a fleeting kindness.
Perhaps, when I’m old,
I’ll sleep under cover, warm
by fire, and love in safety.
Until then, the wind says,
“Move on.”