Driving Back into My Childhood in the Car We Used to Drive over Roller Coaster Road

On our way to fish again,
I watch the seven years that have passed fly through the trees
as we weave through the back roads to the Rogue River.
Every dripping leaf bends the light toward our eyes,
every evening bird trilling song through the air
like the sound of the water, the river
that rushes toward Lake Michigan in a hurry to grow older.
I will bide my time.
 
Here, in the stillness of an evening that cannot be prevented,
there is a sadness blooming among the poison oak and violets below my feet
that is not crushed when I step on it,
but grows up into my bloodstream, wrapping itself around the veins
that keep me aging,
the veins that keep me tethered to fevers and thin breath.
 
Patricia Schlutt