AMP: Artists' Meeting Place and Resource Collective

I ride past fields of thawing mud
the bare oaks still covered with snow,
I ride through towns so small
and so silent that the shy wave
of the girl downtown on her bike
who was in each of us those towns,
was enough to welcome me.
Maybe, if I had chosen
any of those towns could've served
as a destination,
as a place to rest the engine;
but more, a place
where I might have lived another life
that I couldn't live anywhere else
How much of our lives have we spent
in transit,
between people, places, things
even ideas of ourselves that we can commit to?
For whatever reasons,
as afternoon becomes evening
as the fields around me grew rich with expectation,
I turn my back on each life as I created it.
Do I think I can control change?
Is that why I go in search of it?