Passing Pasture

It would be difficult
to recall when it first
crossed my mind.

For certain, traveling
in vans across the
western United States.

I would sit there
watching the world’s
blur pass me by.

And every now and
then, a patch of green
grass, a lush pasture

would speak to me
from the other scenery.
Near a river or stream,

perhaps, or a grove
of saplings. All growing
at their own pace.

A dream fixed itself
to my mind somewhere
along the highway:

I could give it all up.
Lay in a pasture,
and let go.

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