The road stretches like a lazy morning cat,
and the sun, half asleep between shadows,
hesitates behind hills, trees and my destination.
I seem to be the only thing in a hurry.
Bugs constantly machine-gun my windshield.
I say a small prayer relevant to their size,
and take a drink of coffee, avoiding complacency,
while staring at yellow lines too busy to count.
Farms are sewed together with precise stitches,
bordering green fields, red barns with white fences.
Makes me think of Christmas when I was young.
Everything eventually leads back to being a child.
The occasional bridge jumps over a few small creeks
from which mist rises like the dead in some horror movie.
Funny, I don’t shiver at the thought any more.
Such cause and effect are lost in preoccupation.
The further I get down this one lane highway,
the more I wish I had taken my time,
Perhaps, parked in some half lit illusion and waited
for life to catch up to my speeding car
I'm a fair weather writer, so I only write when I feel like it and might go long periods of time before I get the urge. I love writing poetry and reading good poetry, mostly because I didn't have the time in the past to write anything else. Since I have retired, I jumped into serious writing and have written three novels, a bunch of short stories and a few poems here and there. My WIP is a book of short stories and a sequel to one of my current novels. I expect that will take me a year to finish. I don't like to rush my writing.