My father never understood.
It was never about the rules, or breaking them.
It was about a wondering what was beyond the walls,
around the corner, just out of sight,
what might be new, or bright, or dangerous,
what puzzlement I might find,
never about the going or the coming back.
(I always came back).
It was the need to see
how they did it elsewhere,
Not about better or worse,
just about the differences and how so many
could do the same things
I suspect he thought I would outgrow it.
I never did.
About this poem.
I love my home. I love my life. But I never outgrew wanderlust.
As you know so well my friend, I relate to this on every level. I will meander is search of wonder as long as I am able.
You and me both!