In August Sun

In August sun the road passed ‘neath my soles
recording moments briefly in its dust.
It led me onward, careless, ‘round baked knolls
of grass and shrub moved solely by winds’ gust.

No dream, no goal, no plan did move my feet
beyond hypnotic tempo slowly marched.
No thing behind could turn my eyes to meet,
for nothing there would quench a soul so parched.

So onward yet repeated steps did draw
this flesh along a path, indifferent
until beside the tawny road I saw
an object faded pale, incongruent.

A piece of paper, lines laid widely spaced,
a penciled practice alphabet I read.
But more intriguing, creases lined its face.
“A folded paper airplane jet,” I said.

A child has dreamed of flying, leaving ground
below to soar to heights achieved by wings,
discarding boring letters earthly bound,
replacing them with flight, his spirit sings.

And in my mind I join this child who’s gone
beyond assignment, recognizing play
and zestful dreams electric garbs to don,
I yearn for Paris, London, far Bombay.

In August sun I stride the road, inspired,
recalling moments freshly in my past.
I dream of cities, lovers, things required
to feed a soul and life starved after fast.