In the mist, or in the crisp,
I enjoy taking the air,
To pretend to be a pro hiker
Upon the sconce, to mud up my boots,
And to show them off, as proof,
Of my good exercise.
In the mist, or in the crisp,
I enjoy taking the air,
So, I can get lost, but find again,
My basic cares, with my buds playing
An array of pieces, that become
The voices of the flora.
In the mist, or in the crisp,
I need to take the air,
To clear away the dirge-like debris,
Of what I’ve seen, heard and thought,
So, by foot, my solo therapy
Restarts my sanity.
In the mist, or in the crisp,
I need to take the air,
To explore the options of sanctuary,
As home is where the heart is,
And not a fixed space, thus,
On foot I go, to find my kingdom.