Northwest

con trails;
streaks of incandescent light
smeared across
a pale sky
where the swollen sun
falls away
more orange than citrus.

and the radio
swells notes of karma
like god talking
in whispers
beyond the windows,
streaked with dirt
and insects,
fields stream by
in swaths of green

i note the geography,
topography.
the failing light
tracing the macadam
and ascending markers
counting off the miles.

i read the distance
i create.

it separates me slowly
into layers,
traces meridians
and parallels
in my faith.

somewhere deep
i close my eyes
and pray to return
by the old roads.

turn me southeast
and run me from this sunset.

away
to the home
i love best.

April 10 2005

Kristen Gilpin