Early in the morning, the station is empty.
The air is grey with the pretense of rain.
The air smells of November cold and wood smoke.
It is traveling time, your restless soul
itching, less for the destination than the in-between,
the empty hours that move you,
the passing of places by your window,
factories, towns, empty fields.
A blur. Hours of blur.
It is traveling time. The somewheres call you.
You have a need, less a hunger than an instinct
to move. Even standing still, you do it.
Like now, standing on the wooden platform.
It is a small journey, hardly worth mentioning,
a few days, no more,
and yet, like a dog on a leash, you pull.
You will be happy to return. You always are.
But there are places to explore. Some of them are within.
Your heart needs the infusion of empty time and change,
and despite your roots, which run deep in this place,
you are in your element, not the place, but the journey.
It is traveling time.
About this poem.
Every so often the woman I love tells me I need to take a trip. Somewhere. Anywhere. As close as I can tell she is not trying to get rid of me. She simply recognizes that there is something healthy for me to travel. Even if neither of us can explain it fully, we both know it’s so.
Next week, I head to PA for a few days.