Temple Bells In Ohio
In my mind I travel the open road.
Whitman, Frost, Thoreau,
they got here and there before.
I also used to trek and track
there and back;
now I have this chair
and when I can
I place ii in a circle of sunlight,
eyes projecting scenes on eyelids.
I find it easier to slide upwards
to mountaintops this way.
There I can listen to temple bells,
ringing their soft golden chimes
above a mist-laced jungle morning,
or walk a Great Wall
to watch the sun set over Mongolia.
Now a river boat docks at my feet,
I ride the Ohio river
maybe as far as the Mississippi
Mark Twain at the wheel.
Then turn to the open road once more
for a homeward journey,
my chair creaking
as I traipse over lands low and high
to bask now in a backyard
as daylight lengthens.
Ohio corn sways to a hobo wind,
while I,
still hearing the roaring of oceans
orbiting a sitting Buddha,
at peace
with all roads taken or not.
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