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.