I tried my hand at writing poetry when I was in college. In those days there were no computers to act as containers for my poetry so I filled them away on paper in places I expected to be able to find later. So, on this New Years day I’m going through some stuff and there in a brown file box I find this poem I wrote all those years ago.
“What is there here to travel?
Nothing more than is of every day.
Which is in work and play to be found
I look and find within it forever,
here I roam.”