Monday, November 26, 2012

Dusty Road

Dusty Road

I’ve walked these paths, roads for time unknown.  Dusty, dust on my boots my clothes, my hair, it’s never ending.  My load heavy, straps cutting, bending my shoulders.  Boot soles worn, tatters of what they once were.  I thirst for sweet water, the babble of a brook, roar of a river.  Sounds come to my ears, distant, things from the past, sweet gentle tickling my senses.  I’ve seen lands that amaze in beauty, lands destroyed lay to waste.  I walk on I’m a traveler of this world.  This is my quest.  I live by what the land gives me.  I ask for nothing more, gives thanks for what these lands provide me, I walk alone.

I spy a ghost of a man, dancing in the swirling dusty heat.  A traveler also, he too bears a heavy load, bend from the dusty miles; his clothing in tatters from time and distance.  We pass, not a word, not a nod of the head.  Our eyes don’t meet, neither looking for conversation.   What would one say, both with our own thoughts, none too share.  There are miles to pass this day of days

I trek hours alone down this path, I find my mind returning to the dusty heavy burdened traveler I passed.  Thoughts of the familiar, could I have met him before.  I think not, I’ve never traveled this land before.  Just another land upon lands I’ve walked.

The day grows old; soon rest, one more mile and this day’s journey will be done. My thoughts now of only rest; a Spartan meal to see me through the night.  

I spy a black object in the path ahead, a man’s purse.  It must have slipped from a pocket. It must have fallen from the dusty man; I’ve seen no other traveler this day, hours have ticked since our passing; no hope of its return.  I have not the strength or energy.  Maybe a name or address, I’ll have it posted to the owner when a day takes me near a town.  

I stand swaying in the road; all the life has left my legs.  I stare at the name in the purse; my breath comes in short gasps.  The name is mine; papers I’ve saved, notes I’ve placed in it for future times.   The thoughts of the stranger returns, ‘how can it be, I’ve never passed this way before, but my purse is here in my hands, found on the road.  The sense of the familiar, the dusty man heavy with burden clothing, boots in tatters. Neither he nor I giving the other a glance a word of encouragement.

There has been little sleep this night; confusion is my only companion, thoughts of the traveler, thoughts of how things could be different if I’d give a friendly nod, a word, a short minute of conversation.  The new day will start soon, my burden to bare another day of dusty trails, paths, roads without end.   

I walk this life alone.

From the Ramblings.

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