my foot brushes against the hot sand

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my foot brushes against hot sand

the road at my feet is bare

what bits of gravel left kicked to the sides

ruts continuing around the bend

the road is well traveled



as it winds through the country

small white farmhouses

mingling with rolling wheat fields


the scalding asphalt

sits in the middle of a jungle

forging a path through sky scrapers

shabby brick apartment buildings

revving engines and honking horns



numerous crossroads shoot out in all directions

I can take whichever one I want

and see something new on each street


two vastly different terrains lay ahead

waiting patiently for first steps


I wasn’t prepared for the distance

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I wasn’t prepared for the distance

the way it would grow like wheat

rolling over the hills

you know it’s there

you can see the golden straw growing closely together

even from afar


as I look out across the hills and valleys that form my life

searching for that which has grown most apart from me

all I see are waves of gold that seem endless


if I cross over all the hills that stand before me

I’ll find the end

it won’t be without trekking uphill countless times

and then slipping and sliding down

in the smooth wheat


but at what point does it remain worth it?

at what point do we embark over endless hills

to close a gap that grew for a reason

just as the wheat grows and is harvested year after year

a fall day on the palouse

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a fall day on the palouse


a crisp, red leaf

breaks under my worn, leather boots


as my gaze moves from my boot

to the tree above

the leaves consume my mind


beyond the trees

the mist on the horizon

threatens the rolling

(what were) wheat fields


what is autumn but a season

that is unsure how to fit in


rapid, pounding rains

flurried snow

h                      i

.            a                      l

don’t miss the sun

it might disappear behind a cloud

before the process repeats

over and over

and over