Travel
Ursula K. Le Guin
A little child's travel is from life to life,
vague green transitions, April into May.
A teddybear for luggage, no idea of direction.
Later comes apprehension, the fear that I
must die to all I was in going away,
and the heavy bags to open for inspection.
But they seem lighter at every border crossed.
You learn to be without the need to stay.
Only at the last stop is the dear toy lost.
Then there's no travel. No traveler.
No way, no one to go or fear. There never were.
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