We drive on the pin-straight highway, 80 miles per hour.
Holes in the green blur by fast, but there is something there.
Speaking.
I imagine the dirty, bare feet which
Saw those soiled trails as endless, once.
Possibilities never to excel the sky of imagining.
Secrets to know in the leaves and earth
Dreams to dream without limits.
A rest in intimacy which cannot be spoken
Not even shared.
Simply felt or not felt.
Connected or oblivious.
We drive past them now on highways, only seeing
Straight, not inward or outward
Not dreaming or resting,
The journey is efficient, fenced off and quick.
Underbrush grown thick with thorns
Kudzu, and the like.
There is no one left to remember
Just a whisper that hints
There is more beyond the road.
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