I drive away again
from the place I’ve always called home
but this time I’m driving to somewhere
instead of just from.
Winter came late this year
and maybe it’s okay
to let seasons match souls.
There’s a flat road expanse
the beeline of in between.
I think I’ve realized
there’s no perfect button,
no magic escape route
just the slow plod of choices
and accepted contentment.
I wish this landscape to awaken in me
what I once always thought.
There’s no place to run in the ever-wide open,
the endless plateau.
Golden truth is hollow in December
when I’ve steeled myself to grey.
My bones span canyons and ranges,
reminding me why I write my river truths, why I breathe through the bubbles of fear and try to stitch together sense.