To Your Questionable Travels Poem by Robert Rorabeck

Fine weave of Zoroastrian souls
Suspended between us and the clouds all day,
Wishing that it was my ancestors there
In that amber patina over the new crust:
In the distance, low backed mountains without
Trees
As maroon as warlike grottos; and maybe you are
There someplace indiscernible in my canvas:
Always there trying to migrate with your one good leg,
Counting the troubles which harangue the atmosphere
Over your eyes like the ghosts of defeated soldiers,
In the landscape of mothers baked in that clay
Which make your eyes stand out even more if you
Ever chose to open them again, as if it made a difference,
Or gave even more wonderful sadness and
A destination to your questionable travels.