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Sometimes the journey is downhill: a gentle slope to aid our run.
Sometimes the journey is uphill beneath a burnished, scorching sun.
And if we move our feet each day (although we do not go so far),
The steps add up o’er months and years and memories of tears and fun.
Of work it’s said in physics class that work displaces slugs of mass,
But as we see the years pass by the mass that moves is our own tun.
But each day’s journey waits for us, whether we want to travel on.
The sheets can’t hide our heads for long, the pillows cannot daylight shun.
The journey word, it comes from French, where “jour” will mean another day
and “journée” is the distance made from dawn to dusk in footsteps won.
A journeyman had no place yet. He walked from town to town and laid
His services to those in need, to trade his work for bread and bun.
And I, a writer known for tales, let my fingers the keyboard range
Taradiddles emerge there with strange new worlds to vex and stun.