green light go

"I got that green light, babe, I got to keep moving on." I see Oregon stretched out before me. It's a state of contrasts, but throughout the varying shades I see green: the green fecundity of possibility, the green intensity that follows rain, the green light that beckons traveling souls forward. Maybe it's foolish to travel on when so much is good at home. I feel the itch. I feel a compulsion. I see opportunity. I see greenery. I got to move. I need to learn. The light is green, if I pause, if I hesitate, then it might turn red, and once it goes red there's not necessarily the possibility that it will cycle again. Life is not a song, nor is it a traffic light. What is one day green conceivably turns brown; no guarantees exist in this life, and so now that I see the green, I see myself moving on. For better or for worse, and I hope that those I love and those that love me can see this, and in my wake, in my disappearance they don't see a vacant spot reminiscent of self-immolation, but rather a new blade of grass or a seedling of a flower or tree taking root, and while I head to my new spot of land, whatever happens, what I cultivated at home continues to grow. So it goes, and with the new light of opportunity I must go.