The landscape of my mindhas a mythical quality --
the trees I remember
seem so much taller there;
the grasses so much greener;
the lakes so much more blue.
But the paths there are less traveled,
and tend to wind a bit
as I stroll from one idea to the next;
the destination's always a bit unclear.
Is that a farm up ahead?
Or could it be a refinery?
I pause beside a pool of thoughts,
dabble my finger,
and watch Spirit ripple over the water.
* * *
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