All day I drive
past silent churches,
spring green streams,
along forsythia edged roads
the car rolls up and over miles
of curves and narrow drives.
Sometimes I ride the brake
or gun the throttle pass cars, long-haired sleepy dogs,
a truck piled steep with turkey crates
where sorry faces hang
like lost directions.
Feathers, fleeting like your face
behind an April evening,wash the highway.
The sky, blue as your eyes,
empty as your presence
next to me.
Eight hundred thirty-seven miles
I drive – mostly north but sometimeseast and west, watch the rear-view mirror,
ponder where morning will find us.
Wonder why I can’t remember
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