Transient, solitary life,
shrouded in dusk
and coronas of headlights, brake lights and stoop lights
at midnight diners and suburban nooks,
carried across the country by a need to move
and a lust for connection to others who feel the same.

Our vans are warm and inviting,
furnished with the trappings of log cabins
and prints of the moments that kept us going.

Our hearts are just as warm,
though often unseen in the fog that slows us to a halt
in the cold months that open and close the years.

We make fires that bring our stories to the boil,
bubbling out over our soups
and soaking up in our home made bread.

These hours, these nights, these lives.

These miles.

Early mornings, late nights,
midday siestas, midnight fiestas,
and forests where our peace is found.
We wander the land because there's only now and there's only here.

And where we find ourselves when we stop is always home.

Until it's a print on the wall,
settled with its siblings,
and our wheels turn again,
sniffing out another place to grow,
another title for a poem.

We don't drive.
We roam.