This is what I will tell you: Never again carry an itinerary.
Okay, have a landing pad and a departure pad
as anchors if you must.
But that is all.
Allow each moment to inform the next.
Nowhere to go; no place to be, except
for as long as you decide.
I saw her then
around the hundredth bend since Galway
cherub rosy cheeks of youth
in the misty rain.
By instinct, I pulled to the roughened side
hastily clearing the seat of
rain pants, extra socks, and water bottle
ahead of rushed exhalations of thanks.
On a day when winds are raw, rains insist
on their priority,
and fog is playing stingy
with the view
don’t climb Diamond Hill in some
stubborn display of endurance.
No panorama rewards your foolishness.
And I stopped,
heart hammering from exertion
snow shoes resting in deep wells of powder
wind gust rustling the ample boughs
of a Hemlock nearby --
accumulations releasing in a mellifluous whoosh.
A show shoe path through the woods of Maine
And I heard, Are you with us?
The wolves, they haunt me
slinking from the poem about a lonesome one’s journey
springing from the book about their predatory value to the whole.
She tells me it is no accident
their coming to me,
and I long to greet them again
in night school.