Dave Bonta's short poem is built around a loving, slightly odd image: the road as "a sea for all present lives of sand." Sand is usually something that sits still, while a sea moves and carries things. The speaker seems to imagine ordinary, settled lives, grains of sand, as being touched by something larger and restless, the pull of travel.
The last two lines turn the poem toward the speaker's own situation. The road "may come to me / and call me at home." Instead of going out to find the road, the speaker pictures it arriving at the front door, like a visitor or a voice on the phone. That suggests a mix of longing and patience. The speaker loves wandering but is, for now, at home, and half-expects the invitation to find them.
The mood is quiet, dreamy and a little wistful. There is no drama, only a gentle readiness. The poem's loose, unpunctuated flow makes it feel like a thought drifting by, which fits its subject of movement and possibility.