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Highway One
today, by every measure of time
it is time to go
somewhere, not west
the ocean would fish me,
the mountains hail, but no
not grandeur or desolation
or awe, but simple wood
muddy streams, the primordial ooze
of childhood scenes
the linear rusted veins of rail
no trains will rock and whistle
here, where gravel gives way
to grass, to a flow of weed
along the track, to trestle oils
aged to black, then gray,
then paler still, a memory
that has lost its will,
content to fade, become distilled,
a watercolor.
+++++++++++++
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 Life's Home |
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Coleen Shin  |
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