I will know these roads still when I am old,
no matter what soil beneath my feet,
or how the horizon sits along the seam of the land.
There is something deeper here, in this land,
that aches with time so worn it’s older than old
and has lost count of all those passing feet.
My bones will find these roads again, my feet,
that ache with time shall yearn for land
where I am but a dust mite in time, young despite old.
I am of this land, my feet, my heart, until and after I am old.