Thoughts from Roman Nose Trail

Photo by Peter Weemeeuw

All this time spent thinking
about one lifetime and now,
everything’s one thing, every-
thing’s a rag that hangs from
the oven handle, catching
the anticipated light that
breaks the rain and lets the
day carry about its business
while I, the passenger, watch
as I, the driver, collect butter-
flies on glass, travelling three
hours each way to walk up
a mountain and down a hill
and just like that, one day’s
gone, and the next, too, for
recovery, and my mother’s at
the breakfast table practicing
the pronunciations of her
favorite words—serendipity,
Chevrolet, neighbor, return—and
the way she lingers on the last
syllable of the American car
reminds me of something
gritty, heedless, irrevocable,
the unsung calls of the lost
cub, yearning for the
company of grace.