I have never taken a road trip,
if you can believe it. Never
climbed into a tangerine Westfalia
on its last revolution around
the sun, pulled back the knotted
curtains at the window and
gaped at dribbling maples and
slush-stained mountainsides —
the mess of our world, undressed
and unaware.
But i’ve seen others swoon: peeping
nature rising, just out of bed,
piney hands stretching and the aching fog of
morning. the arguments of
wind, buffeting the trees with odd complaints
as the rain comes crawling sleepily down
the sky. a patch of clouds
grumbling in half-dressed gray.
it’s awesome to witness, I’m told —
the unvarnished real, a templed chaos.
like Saturday morning breakfast
in the household
of a dysfunctional family.
