Billy's poem is about
imagining a different
kind of life,
not being a writer,
but perhaps a dog
hanging its head out
the car window.
Is there another life I would live?
An alternate?
I'm back at the herb farm
in Weaverville, North Carolina
a place we thought we'd like,
perhaps thrive.
The whole thing seems weird now.
But,
I could have been that herb farmer,
looking at the sky above the mountains,
going by the rhythm of the seasons,
designing wreaths of lavender and eucalyptus,
rocking in the swing under a tree.
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