Across the miles and through the forest of pineon a route as much memory as asphalt
of music listened eight hours at a time
as thoughts of loved ones in disrepair
played inside my head
of tears shed upon the images
slipping away
some eight hours hence
some eight hours away
This route between homes
a tether of black and orange
and speeding cars
of leavings and comings
of adventure and closings
of a father's anger
put to rest
and a grandmother's pain
lingering on
pulling me south
The road never judged
The road never brayed
it gave me what I needed
a way back home
and I sit this morning
guilty
knowing I never thanked the road
which is my way of saying
I've forgotten we live not alone
and to touch the road
is to touch the universe
as the universe has always
touched
me
back
3 comments:
Between where I live now (Tennessee) and where my family lives (Louisiana) is about eight hours.
Distinctly personal, the nuance given the quality and depth of your other poetry is small so to speak but enormously poignant, the ache within creating an ache without. There's a loneliness to it, perhaps that should be aloneness, not quite the same thing, that comes partly from the allusions (lack of embelishment) and from the suggestion that the journey is a solitary one, much more within that adds to such impressions, the idea of two homes, of regardless of direction, north or south, travelling away from one and toward the other, wholly intriguing, it is a poem that is felt rather than read, a poem that rises above definition, and it almost seems wrong to offer detailed comment. Beyond to say it is toucing, and magnetic.
Interesting to read this poem today as I leave in two days to drive that route of black and orange again, back home. And I agree, this is a poem felt more than read, felt in the way that families separated feel the distance. Will be good to see family again.
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