There is no poverty with adventure
when pockets are full of travel. Stories
of wide fields with no boundaries wait
with expectations; words of surprise fill
the spaces between. Morning appears
drowsy until the first step, where treasures
await and diners serve up fresh warm pie.
Heads or tails can point the direction. Rain
creates thought for the coming of clear days.
Winds urge me like hands with fresh coffee
as I cross one more bridge.
Front porches bid me farewell.
Roger Singer 
lovely poem
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