She looked at her wagon decrepit
and old;
can it make one trip down yonder
road
with a load much lighter than
ever before
and a soul that knows it will
soon have to die?
The wagon was silent; it had
spoken before
of one last, one last, and
another last one
and now closed eyes to think
(maybe pray)
could it be, could it be, the
final last one.
It looked at the pasture beyond
its foresight
and thought maybe, yes, it could
live out its days
relaxing, reclining, and
remembering
all the trips back and forth and
round about.
Maybe, just maybe, time is its
friend
to allow four wheels to sink into
the sand
and bring in peace previously
denied
the one that travelled through
experiences.
Suspicious of time; friend or foe
do you think
but wagons and gypsies know time
is just time
so easily susceptible to a change
of mind
on its relentless march to demise -
if there such a thing
be.
