I want to play not manage,
  write not teach

I want to drive—all controls in hand

I want to be like the rain across
  the mountains

Not the river that may turn to sand

I want to be that ******
  with a single bullet

And not part of the infantry’s trek

I want to be the first
  to cross the tundra

Without needing a map to check

I want the bugle to blow
  from my own lips

So others may advance and attack

I want roses free, to line
  my front walk

Replanted from the garden out back

I want feet that will always
  climb above

The timid and reluctant below

I want memories to follow me
  out of this world

To a place that is just mine to know

(Villanova Pennsylvania: April, 2015)