slantcadence

A rolling stone, I gather twigs and moss,/I rub them in my hands, and then I toss/them out the window of my speeding self,/they tumble in the winds that dust the shelf/of knick-knacks, tchochkis, all the humble dross/that weighs me down, that keeps my mileage low,/I gather up and cry to let them go. Currently WWOOFing, recently a communard, sometimes a cook, often a maintenance man, once an engineer, occasionally a programmer, never a cog, ever a seeker.