Poetry – Page 122 – Picking Up Roots

Roots

I am called home
by animal instincts
I can't explain,
no matter the places I go
the new roots I sow,
the pull of pine trees
and the salty, rocky coast,
horizons of fiery beauty,
the draw of fierce independence,
leave my soul restless -
my roots call me home

Work

when my reckoning comes 
these days won't matter
(if they ever did), 
that I pushed, stretched
to my limits and beyond
instead of taking in a fiery sunset
won't be worthy of a footnote
in the annals of time,

so why put myself
through such grueling paces:
it's what I watched,
it's what I know,
it's how I sleep at night,

I don't know how to stop
so I drive on
another plough-house in the field

Hands

hands move,
in a circular race
time ticks away,

each second is a gift
an opportunity to learn,
a chance to feel,
a new experience -

we take them for granted
so caught up are we
in using screens
to numb ourselves
to existence -

the hands keep circling -
neither fast nor slow -
and we keep chasing
precious time