Pavement Scribbles

I turn to the road
for the proper arrangement
of this internal landscape.
Mile markers
stamp my unending letter —
grammar of gray pavement,
punctuation
of birds and wires,
striations of sky
stain the blank page.

And love without limit
requires no return.
What better end
than to entertain,
entice and entrance,
just as you’ve done,
with no knowledge
of the doing.
This dream of describing
for unseeing eyes
makes it magic,
no matter the season.

Watch for backroads
where all was bared
too soon,
and the windmills
turning in and out of unison,
the neverending cornfields
where I sang
while I worked,
the devolution of old barns,
and 13 watchful hawks.

Upon all of it,
all of us,
the illusory progress
of time —
headlights and taillights
headlights and taillights
and sunlight
on orange flags.

And they always told me,
you need to find a
someone
to address.
And I’m still not sure
how you ascended
to such a role —
mutual love of words
and the unraveling of roads,
but so it is.
So I sign my name,
and quiet the engine,
again.

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About Emily

I may or may not have: A. Dirt B. Ink C. Paint D. Wool under my fingernails.

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