Lives, Like Vines

Flying across this land, greeting the coming dawn,
Far below a network of highways,
Homes, rivers and byways,
Cars, trucks, and trains rolling on and on.
People down there moving about, specks like ants fretting,
Purpose in each,
What? Out of reach,
Lives, like vines, strands sprouting and spreading.
I think of my own people, homes left behind,
Covered wagons filled,
Treasures of life’s yield,
The oxen pull and the schooners the women walk beside.
They count mile after mile, each day a new start,
The trail hard ahead,
To the journey no end,
Toward the promised land, Eden in their heart.
Home on the trail, with laughs, tears and joy,
A cry and a sigh,
A woman has died,
Leaving life for a wailing pink baby boy.
A wheel comes loose, rain pouring a torrent,
The men and the boys,
Thigh deep in the morass,
Dig the muck, lift the wagon, the wheel now bent.
The sun rises hot, a glade by the stream,
A picnic and rest,
Prayers for the blest,
The night falls about them, starlight filled with dream.
Now over the hill, mountains sighted ahead,
Ringed with white at the top,
His step a halting stop,
An old man falls, no more life in his tread.
Mountains ascended, rocky steep sides descended,
Fertile fields abound,
New homes, crops in ground,
In each ancestor’s life’s book a new chapter appended.
So far from new homes, no roads, boats or post,
Is sister alive?
Did poppa survive?
Was the journey of hope and the promise of Eden a ghost?
Flying across this land, lights twinkling in the dusk,
Far below a network of highways,
Homes, rivers and byways,
Cars, trucks and trains rolling on and on.
People down there moving about, specks like ants fretting,
Purpose in each,
What? Out of reach,
Lives, like vines, strands sprouting and spreading.

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