vagabond

dirt beaten into a line

by many feet that traveled by 

leaving something and running 

to another,

learning along the way.

most who leave have a destination in mind: 

to return home

or find a new one.

but the child born along the way

has only dirt-caked soles.

not knowing exactly what was left behind,

not having a goal themselves,

the road becomes the hearth and living room couch.

if you want to find the child born on the way, 

look for them with the tickle in their bones,

maps on their minds, 

and a deep ache inside their hearts, 

like the trees that ache for the sky above just out 

of reach no matter how long they stretch,

aching for the dirt-beaten line and the 

wonders of what’s around the bend.

when you ask the vagabond where they’re headed,

watch them trace with a weathered finger 

the path they will go,

watch them hesitate, deep eyes seeing invisible things,

and leave off the beginning and end

to focus on the dirt-beaten way.

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