Monday, March 28, 2011
Partially bragging, I tell him three decades
might as well be a lifetime. I say I know
these roads like the back of my hand.
The truth is, I never get used to
not knowing margin from text. Where
does the road end and ditch begin?
And what about this wildness
that earlier said "Spring," yet the fields
aren't made of soil but sky,
and there's no horizon. Earlier,
I might have pointed to a hawk
atop a speed limit sign
or the farmhouse where border collie
runs herd, nipping at the heels of
his two horses who run like there's no
fence line to be pressed against. These
are my mile markers those mornings
after coffee disappears and the daily bread
is packed in a cooler. I bless his day,
kiss him clean of the sins we practice nightly,
this fine art of loving without saying
that word. This language of snow is so
fickle. He's wearing shorts
because the sun was shining earlier.
Now, the heater hums, and we bask
while forging the tracks that say we are
here, and thankfully, nearly there.