Wyoming
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What have I become?
All I want to do is lie
somewhere,
on the soft and
unbroken earth.
Feel the pulse of mother's womb,
hear the coyotes calling,
wade into a cold
rushing river
What I would give to be in Wyoming.
Where mountains hug the sky
and the wind whispers stories of yesterday.
Where lakes mirror dusty pine trees
and Father Sun is close enough to burn sunflowers
The country road is a dusty strip of asphalt extending farther than the eye can see
The edges are frayed, crumbling
Cracks pepper the road, a few randomly tarred over
Little to see in any direction
keep running.
