There are sullen winter spells
that settle heavy on the soul
like overcooked comfort food
on two hour naps through half dark days
stuck in a string of gray thirties,
when wet descends in cold drifts
as silent songbirds cling to trees
and muffled crows cast about, listless.
But, yes – when the cold cloud lifts
I shall head south on a state road,
past brown fields of dog fennel
when backlit tips wear tan halos
behind stubble ditches and broomsedge shoulders.
I shall sail over silhouettes of distant cattle
plying well trod pasture; beyond tin-roof sheds,
strewn about with farm machines;
above old lawns anchored by scotch broom
and lonely oak; over ordered rows of old pecan
outside the town where Remus broods;
through the strip past Andalusia,
set apart from the way to Walmart.
I shall crest the fall line
and roll the frozen swells
of an ancient seabed
that stretches out to the blue-green horizon
of barren plantations in cash-crop pine.
Will you come too?
Shall we tune our souls to a mellow song?
Can we ‘Let it Be’ ‘Sweet Baby James’
down ‘The Long and Winding Road’ again?
So calm we are energized by Enya.
So centered we bless the car that cuts us off
and send our love the driver inside.
For there are kind winter spells,
and we are heading south,
cutting through noon shadows
to a land of graybeard and ghosts,
confluence of earth and sky,
river and sea, where brackish channels
braid marsh and mudbank,
porpoise feed the peaceful waters,
and mist mingles with heaven at dawn.
