Picture of a Dusty Mountain Road

To step into that picture-tile
On gramangrampa’s fire-place
And walk along a dusty mile
(Upon the path my hand would trace,
When I was young and of it’s height,)
And see what lay beyond that bend
Which turned away, out of my sight,
And not to find a final end,
In summer day without a night,
Of Spanish-Californian light,
This was my dream of deep delight.

~Watchful

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