no no it’s not
not being on watch
the days beginning to linger
this patch
of a Fool’s Spring
still waiting on the crocus bloom

still no it’s not any of that
making my boots ache
for old soil
my tired walking stick
broken still sings
of the open road

but the river draws its own
and here I sit
under a fading sunset
one more piece of driftwood
coughed up in a storm