Some September afternoon, when the sun

spreads golden, begins its slant

toward equal day and equal night, take

a drive along a country road.

No need for arrivals and plans, trust

each belt and bend to carry you,

wheels on gravel, whistle of air,

every stretch a noticing:

the field corn’s parchment ears

honeyed in light, the leaves of sycamore

and beech shuddering with each small

death that shrinks their verdant green

and closer in, what waits in final bloom —

asters and blue sailors, ironweed

and goldenrod, so much stubbornness

in slight, bright things.

Are you emptied yet, of the thoughts

that belong to who you’ve left behind,

the running myth of not enough, maybe later

and how you’ve failed

at love?

Lean in to every sound that sifts

this wrackful noise, the warblers

winging south, wind angling over grass.

You, too, can turn this corner,

ring the bell

of your one

unspoken truth.

What you’ve lived is the road

that brought you here, what

you can create begins

in this brave moment.

Everything is witness, the unveiled

sky, this falling leaf, the blacktop yielding

spin by spin, even the horses

in the pasture up ahead, awakened

dream of how you came from beauty,

keep thunder in your veins.