I once had a garden, but weeds grew in.
The sky was clear as glass, but clouds rolled in.
I was breathing clean air, but smoke got in.
I slept without sheets, but cold snuck in.
My existence brewed up, but grounds fell in.
Despite all of this, I would choose nothing else.
The path would be boring if it was smooth and nothing else.
So I don't fret the bumps.
I hold the wheel steady, watch the scenery and make it through.
The grass may be greener, but my face is toward the sky.
Eyes closed.
Bathed in sunlight and warm to the touch.