My route to my country retreat takes me up Highway 12, then Hwy 49 and finally Hwy 4. It's a 70 mile drive. On this route I pass two spots that have very bad memories attached to them. One is where my goddaughter's husband spun out on his motorcyle and died. The second is where my oldest grandson's half brother was killed in a car crash. I also pass some roadside shrines, and even though I don't know whose memorials they are, I am touched by them too. I awoke in the middle of the night last night and started composing a poem about them. Here is the first draft. Copyright 2009 Janene Ford.
Driving along a country road
happily humming a little tune
without a care in the world
as if nothing could interfere.
I've passed this way before.
The miles speed by as my mind
leaves the road
and drifts back and forth through time
thinking about all those yesterdays
and tomorrow's trip to the grocery store.
a yellow sign
an arrow bent
reduce speed
sharp curve ahead
Off to the right
at the foot of a tree
a shrine for a youth
whose path ended here
stopped by the black finger of fate.
It could have been me
I have passed this way before.
An old pickup truck
a six pack of beer
His youth suddenly snatched away.
He lost control
as he rounded the bend.
The tree could not move.
His truck would not stop.
he sped headfirst to his doom.
A collision, a crash.
Broken glass, broken head,
His first truck now nothing but trash.
It could have been me.
I've passed this way before.
How many lives were shattered that night?
How many people mourn?
How many tears were shed
For the brother, the friend, the son?
Nothing can be said.
Nothing can be done - and that's
the hardest part.
Nothing is slower to heal
than the hole in his mother's heart.
I say a little prayer for the soul
of the one who died
and the lives that were wrenched
by the tragedy,
As I zip past the little sad shrine -
that could have been mine,
had the black finger pointed at me.
I have passed this way before
and I'll pass this way again.
1 comment:
This poem really touched my heart, Janene. How often do we pass by, and feel just like this...but you put the feelings into words, and that is a gift.
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