Route 51 absorbs the roar and agitation spinning across it;
an Illinois dawn rises from harvested fields. Winter will not
release its net. A huddle of willows waits, still pinioned to
cryptic ground. The fall of tendrils hadn’t even recognized
the first signs of attack.
Grandpa Glenn was a talented farmer, but now he names
abandoned hay bales as cows; tells us again he’ll paint the old
farmhouse white when it thaws. We remedy the conversation
with small bits of humor, deciding that it must be grenadine
that makes lemonade pink.
Identity is a divergent evolution, filled with growth rings and
dead branches. None of us remember well the people we used to
be. Turning right on Rt. 34— potholes of black freeze, impossible
to avoid. The impertinence of ice has exploded the pavement
we opaquely travel upon.