Road Trip.

There is calmness in the air outside;
The morning sun nudges the sky and reminds us of the time.
We buzz like the creatures within the dewy lawn.

You take my bag and head to the car.
Our destination 300 miles south from our cool north.
You smile and ask me if I am ready
I look you in the eyes;
The birds answer.
I smile with my hand on your thigh.

The engine purrs.
We roll until the roads become broad and then thin again.
Until cities transform to towns
And houses become barns.
We roll until fields meet mountains that once appeared as two-dimensional backdrops of a stage while the radio plays a score.

Your palms have taken on the mold of the wheel
And your shoulder the mold of my head.
Creamy cotton clouds stream along the ever-changing sky as we journey into the mountains
Where wolves howl and deer graze.
Signs alert us for moose.

I open the window to feel speed with my hands;
The thick wet country air streams between my fingers.
Today feels so good.

Firework colored leaves signal the height of the mountains and change in climate.
Time has passed.
Clouds now appear to us as mountains in the distance.
My ears pop.
You pull over.
Your fingers clasp onto mine.
We are almost there, you say
How about a coffee?
Above the sun has reached its zenith.
I hand you a sandwich.
The dewy grass is now a forest.

**I wrote this poem on a road trip to Boston. Every time I read it, it brings me back to that day.