Along the Way
Along the northern highway,
Between the earth and sky,
My traveled soul is searching
For something left behind
It could be in the mountains
That cradled as I passed,
My younger heart too willing
To see your face at last
It could be in the rivers
That wound about the road,
Escaping to the forest
In silver streams of cold
It could be in the fields
That stretched to meet clouds,
So deathly gray and saddened
Above the sleeping towns
It could be in the tree tops
That found us lying there,
Amid the sacred silence
Of pine and autumn air
It could be in the fire
That roared within the hearth
Too long ago in winter
To warm this weary heart.
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