Sitting in my writing room,
In a house that’s dark and cool,
Typing on this silver box
That’s both my master and my tool,
I dream of rides I’ve yet to take.
The hour is late – my normal time
To contemplate the past;
To think about the rides I’ve done:
How much longer will they last?
Perhaps two decades more.
There’s music on – it softly plays
An old blues tune - guitar,
I reminisce about my rides,
How long, to where, how far.
I’ve had some great ones.
I think about the places
That I’ve yet to go,
The desert roads, Route 66,
The Rockies in the snow.
So many roads, so little time.
The atlas, open on the shelf
My eyes upon it fall,
Sometimes it’s my favorite book,
The roads within it call,
For therein lie my future rides.
Some people call it restless feet,
When you feel the need to move.
I tend to think it’s something else,
When riding is your love.
Riding moves your soul.
This is what I think about,
When it’s cold and dark outside.
I can still my restless feet,
But my restless heart must ride.
I’ll see you on the road.