The lure of the open road is upon me when autumn sets fire to these hills.
The poet in me remembers long solitary rambles along the dusty roads that time forgot, past hedgerows robed in the regal purples of New England asters and past small ponds that reflect the glorious rainbows of the falling leaves.
In my own mind I am autumns gypsy companion rambling across the landscape in clothing as colorful as any found in nature.
When I was young I’d take off on my trusty “me-speed” bicycle and I’d follow those roads less traveled with no thought given to the passing hours. There was a sense of freedom then: It didn’t matter what demands life placed upon me. I shrugged them off and gave myself over entirely to the moment. Well, its been years since I rode a bicycle and those dusty lanes are now eight lane highways.
But the asters grow tall in my garden and the leaves of the cotton wood drift down like golden feathers and I welcome vagabond autumn here in my garden. We sit on this old swing and remember days when there were open meadows where now there are well groomed parks. I miss so much the wild places that time forgot.
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