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Farmington to Kingfield

Farmington to Kingfield

The snow piles up
in soft luminous layers,
as sunlight flashes
through leafless poplars
off my tinted windshield
as I drive this road.
Leaning with the curve
with you or others.
After the cemetery,
the gray headstones
are still and cold behind the wall
unmarked by the years.
Our words to each other disperse lightly
as the blown snow.

Long silences between the dark firs
and the next open field.
Remember a house perched high
where we got the black pup then.
The straight away place,
long and empty,
what did we say to each other?
I remember only the passing light
and the rumble of the tires beneath us
and your warm breath on the windshield.

Details accumulate
like new snow
melting into yesterday's fall
taking the shape of the land
so solid and gracefully crafted.

The run downhill to the lake
where houses crowd close
and I had driven our family car full of us
into the ditch and pulled out
without a cry from my mother or father.

A sharp curve
sunlight fresh in our faces
the smell of damp earth
from spots of grass in the snow
among the apples trees in neat lines
trimmed to a man-size
for pick-your-own
sign still fresh by the shed.

Up to a wide expanse
once a great homestead,
bordered by giant sugar maples
now broken scarecrows
reaching toward each other.

Bang, bang bang.
the tires hit the bridge spans
high above rushing waters
opening to the expanse of fields.
The road rolling down to the river,
the constant river,
the carrier of our songs.

I have traveled this road,
in other seasons
through light or snow,
or other colors,
with you or you.
I was a song without words
Our journeys joining and dividing
each to their own ends.

As I retrace the turns
of lives layered through winters,
passing bare patches in the melting snow,the smell of the earth rises
and awakens life.
The land invites us to drink of it
until we are quenched.