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
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
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.