We’ve been talking about Texas again.
What is this restlessness twitching our veins?
We plan and we plot these points, connect
dots on a map: a route, a view, a destination;
always moving, all ways looking ahead.
Why we can’t just breathe and appreciate
what is here, the cobbled streets and cafes,
centuries-old relics of vast human past—
Why it won’t simply root my feet to this spot
to know it is one I have wanted to stand in
so long and with such longing—
But our world-view, once expanded, shrinks
to the size of a dot. We crave the round finish,
the chord resolved. When a wooded German road
reminds you of Georgia (though there is another
road and another, beyond and unexplored),
I wonder if it’s time to go home.