Migration

September reminds me
That I used to move.
I was young once and was able
to transition with the seasons.

Summer was a time for work
the funding needed for school,
long dark winters,
and beer.
Youth allowed me to work
three jobs and still
find time to play
and wake up on random beaches
in my sleeping bag under my truck.

With autumn came classes
and moving back north
and once it meant
heading off
to parts unknown.
Tuition money also pays for gas
by the liter,
and beer
in Canada, eh.

Youth allows for selfishness
and expects do now,
think later.  Especially when
home is there, to come back to,
after adventures are done
and spring returns.

And now I am seasoned.
Fall means school for kids,
stacking wood for winter,
and Carhardt jackets.

But within, something remembers.
And leaves
yellowing and blowing
across my windshield
awaken the urge to move,
to go somewhere
most anywhere except
where I have to be.

My days of migration are done.
I stay here.
It's my turn to provide the home
for transitions,
for actions and reactions,
for leaving and returning.

But once upon a time,
I rambled down the road,
transitioning
with the seasons.