In solitude I do sit, in the cool of a summer breeze
as the wind gently carries the trees
and my thoughts gently carry me
to places where I ought to be—
and unknown places I long to be
As inspiration comes—
in the handle of a door,
a taste once had and now no more,
a glance, a face, an imaginary line across a red shore
in the whispers of thousands who speak—
and the silence of so many weeks
oh there are many paths to the mountain's peak
and humanity always found
on the ground on which we sit
where the kindest of threads—
though sometimes hidden from sight,
weave a path back—so we can transcend.