I stood on the bridge.
Interstate 40
rushing below
like a roaring river.

I was young then.
I felt the freedom
of the flow on this
new-built superhighway.

It was a freedom from
grief, and for grief.
It is the freedom that
prisoners feel

at the sight of an airplane.
Or lives in the memories of
old adventurers.

That highway made dreams-
and some came true
in the coming years.
Planes, trains, autos,
And feet and thumb.

Chains live in many dimensions
on bodies, on minds,
on the souls of the ignored.

Shaking off my restraints
has taken so much.
And still, they are felt
pressing in the depths.

The highway gave tastes of freedom.

Being ‘free’ while wearing
shackles and pursued by hounds
of culture
eventually has no meaning.

I fly free
but return to the same Earth.

Deep within
a spark still glows
and gives flight and light
to rushing dreams.
— — —
Dana Sanford ~ 1/25/2019

Thank you for reading

Poet. Philosopher. A sense of Humor. 60 years ago I rode the winds at the top of a tall cottonwood. Buy me a coffee @ https://ko-fi.com/danasanford

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