Roiling clouds, grey as the mountains,
spill across sky, over the plains.
Farmhouses wrecked by the violence of wind,
mute warning for those still stuck to earth.
A blizzard’s first kiss bends roadside grasses,
travels through tires and axle to my palms
clutching the wheel. I don’t remember cars
or birds. Every minute the colors bleed
toward an iron uniformity.
I forget to believe in gravity.
—
I’ve been working on a series of road poems lately. Some new stuff and some old ones I’ve been revising. Read Write Poem’s prompt for the day was Road Trip so here’s a road poem.
It comes from a trip I took up to Colorado on ’94. One day, I decided to drive up toward Cheyenne because I’d never been to Wyoming. There was a blizzard coming in and, well, that led to this poem.