Driving down 76, tires
a slow waltz on slick roads, cars
nosing into the dark spell
of a gossamer night, snow
a shimmer in headlights,
feathering the trees that breathe
with supplicant arms, sentinel glance.
I think I should be tense, anxious,
a tight grip on the edge
of a long day in a winter’s glare
but the night is a lullaby, a hush
even with scrape of wiper blades,
slap of ice, a misty caravan song,
and I wait for what will meet me here,
where I can be claimed by a rash
of sorrows, dint of hope
with my aunt in a hospital bed, half
paralyzed, roped to silence by stroke,
while somewhere depression paints
its warpath on a body I love
and a marriage clings to a fistful
of promise and bullets steal
our young, our black, our thunder
hearts while beauty
wants one more
kiss.
The Traveling Light 
Yes to this poem, Naila, with all its visualizations of winter and life’s cold realities so tenderly expressed.
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Thank you, dearest Marge.
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of course, i must again bow to the brilliance of your use of language, exquisite line breaks, and phenomenal imagery. you are my hero! xo a.
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And I bow again to your discipline, your ritual, your dedication… those lines that take my breath away. So honored and happy to be on this poetic journey together!
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Your words are pictures on the blank canvas of a mind. Your gift continues to amaze. You are such a treasure my dear dear friend.
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Thank you, most magnificent friend. Thank you. You have been there reading all of these from the very beginning. And that a priceless gift.
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Wow. Just . . . WOW. My beautiful deeply blessed friend, bless you for continuing to share your brilliance far and wide, a pollination of our souls.
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Thank you, dear heart. Thank you for creating and holding space for me to share these words with you.
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