This morning

 

I saw you again

in your red

station wagon, you were

speeding up the ramp

to the highway and I

was zooming past, going

the other way.

It was that place

where the road slowly rises

and cuts through the hill,

where redbud and dogwood

stipple the banks with color

for just one week

in spring, and how

can this be? that you

keep turning up

on the road, around a corner,

your curly hair flying

and your strong brown hands

on the wheel, when I know

your driving days

are over, and where you passed

is only emptiness,

our hearts cut in two

like the hillside, and a thin

ribbon of pain

winding through

 

© 1999, Wendy McVicker