WESTERN BYROADS

By Jeffrey M. Bowen

The roads below weave endless lines,

While far above we love the signs

Of purpose in these random rubs

Across a sun-bleached land of scrub.

Like furrows plowed with no intent,

The routes stretch on without relent

Until a sudden end arrives

So quickly motives won’t survive.

From far above they look like Mars

Journeys lost among the stars.

Did humans really build these roads?

Perhaps they spell out secret codes?

Each groove a story line untold

Of puffs of dust on trails to gold,

Or noble moves in God’s great plan

Amidst the miles of barren land.

I contemplate their mysteries,

Knowing well that some old man

Could tell their history.

No youngster could have drawn these lines,

But old men’s faces show such signs

Of bygone life and worn out creases.

Yet nothing ever truly ceases.

All roads lead to some salvation,

But learning whose is divination.

J. Bowen 11/18/15