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The Road to Everywhere

by

Donnelly Fenn

What hand plants the birch-lined road to everywhere,

Its hoof-dented dirt beckoning me to another time?


What eye sees the harvest and noontime sun,
That now leaves the fields in fallowed rest?


Rising above the dark, still earth,
The white crusted birch cares not of this.


It stretches far above the toilerís reach
And far beyond the finite road that leads my feet.


Itís in the wind at the top of the trees,
Where the whispered answers spread the gentle leaves,


Neither hand nor eye can ever know the road to everywhere,
But the birch, when it lines the winding road, can sing the way.

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