Here by way of train to the golden state
It’s day three. I ask my host for a cushion
To rest my bones. Something with its ticking
Still intact. I turn myself directly to the sun,
Lace my fingers, close my eyes. I don’t feel it,
But my head bobs back and forth in good measure.
Old dogs dream. And today I race the clouds.
I spread my aches some place on high, and
When I wake, I will tell you, I am born again.
I’ve been to the Land of More, I’ll say, where
Any patron in need of rescue is resuscitated.
The Land of More is beautiful and breathing.
For Brenda’s Wordle