scruta

You asked me my thoughts about vagabonds and wayfarers. Bold men and women who would stake the claim of their life upon wide-eyed wandering and slack-jawed free floating throughout the world.

I responded that a man’s life is like planting a seed, and seedlike, the wayfarer rolls in the surf and blows upon the wind, toils in the underbellies of swallows and escapes the notice of kernel crunching rodents. The wayfarer’s seed will not rest until it has seen every ground where it might take root, every sky where its leaf might feast upon an unbashed sun.

Of course, while a seed’s journey might be great, and its knowledge of the world wide, it will never know the heights of the seeds that took root early and grew tall, seeing the world from a commanding height, reaching for the sun.

(I quickly assured my friend that this analogy was rather plain, and like all analogies, was probably rooted in something I read, something someone had mulled over before. Poets always live in our brains.  Yes, even the unread ones.)