Wandering Poem by Diana Rosser
Wandering
Without
beginning or end
the journey walks
with familiar boots
that smell of fields
winter and summer skies
the rustle of autumn leaves.
They turn up
sitting beside me
as the slipping sun
dips into warm oceans.
The unfamiliar blowing
across in the wind.
Riding through colour
spices, saffron, cumin
on windowless buses
jostling over pot holes
they rest.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
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4/23/2024 1:07:45 AM # 1.0.0.1119
