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| jo'b |
We measure our lives by our joys. -- Thoreau. Feb. 23, 1860
I let the fire go out
and opened up the house,
invited in the wind
and stepped outside,
the road now bare enough
to ride, and that I did,
shouting out to neighbors
mucking out their barns,
stubble showing in the fields
as snow recedes, and I
was happy to survive,
blinking in sunlight,
yet something was missing still,
something weather only can't provide,
something... something more,
but what?
Answers, I suppose.
