Monday, March 28, 2011

Idaho Springtime

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.


  1. What a curiously poignant reflective poem, full of innuendo and conjuring up in the reader's mind a not quite idyllic relationship.

  2. That was a really nice poem- full of meaning and imagery. Thank you!

  3. really enjoyed this, especially so the mile markers... reminded of out here where there is a far stretch between the markers..

  4. The picture helped me travel down the road in this poem..finding the line between the 'margin and the text' can apply to so many things in the world..and make the familiar not quite so known..nice write..Jae