More traffic jams and stunted turns:
the rustic in me often yearns
to leave behind this urban maze,
these concrete halls, the hectic haze,
and reach a route that curves away
across the bridges, burbs, and bay,
the smog and streets bogged in the fray
of someone always running late
and life at such a breakneck rate.

And so, it's settled: at this light,
I must drive left instead of right:
this leads me north, whence I was born,
among the horses, wheat, and corn,
where only mountains scrape the skies
and greener fields fill the eyes
with wildflowers, dragonflies
--whole acres no one tread before,
except the cattle, deer, or boar.

I have a certain spot in mind,
the opposite of grime and grind:
a lake to clear my weary head
and spare my soul from going dead
so I can lean back, recollect,
imagine, question, and reflect
on prospects, wishes, things to see,
then breathe, release, and simply be
as nature soothes and sets me free.