Monday, May 14, 2007

The Road

Past the 45,
Up where the bridge
Slices the sky above
The Straits of Mackinac,
The soil grows rocky,
And the maples give way
To tamarack and jack pine.

The scenery passes,
And the people change,
The only thing
That stays true
Is the road.

Huron is long gone,
Getting smaller
Here, in the long rear-view
Of memory. The sun
Gleams hot and liquid,
Bright in your sunglasses,
And on your lips as you smile.

The same gas-stations,
The same lonely bars.
We know these places,
But what really brings us back
Is the road.

With my seat kicked back,
The sapphire sky
Of Grand Marais looms deep,
And seeing Marquette,
Rising from the bay,
Gives me hope for better.
Our home, wherever we roam.

A million words,
And snapshot moments
Of shared experience.
You bring me back.
You are my road.

With you at my side,
I will follow
US 2 anywhere.
We will read aloud
In cafes, and laugh
Over beers at Vango's.
We will smile. We will make love.

We'll drink to the times,
And to the friends,
Forever lost to us. We'll race
The sun, and pray aloud
To Angels of the road.

Time robs us blind,
Robs us of moments,
Robs us alone. But I don't care.
For now, there is only you,
And I, and the road.


Blogger David M said...

Trackbacked by The Thunder Run - Web Reconnaissance for 05/14/2007
A short recon of what’s out there that might draw your attention.

6:32 PM  
Blogger toadman said...

This poem is awesome Milo...really.

7:09 PM  
Anonymous Anne said...

*raises a glass*

To the road...

Be it winding or straight, may we always travel it together.

7:22 PM  
Blogger Thomas said...

To the MQT and to beers at Vangos!

I'm moving to New Mexico for a few months...thought I'd keep you informed.

The TB

10:30 PM  
Blogger iamcoyote said...

Just beautiful, Milo.

2:28 PM  
Blogger Hayden said...

wonderful! I know U2, Marquette, the gleam of sun on Lake Huron. You bring it back for me.

4:01 PM  
Anonymous mamaworecombatboots said...

Follow Hwy 2 to it's westerly end. I'll meet you there, buy you a drink.
I've spent a lot of time on that old road, blind in the whiteouts of North Dakota, hauling rations for the men with their fingers on the buttons.

More on Highway 2 in eastern Washington, wondering what I would do if I ever saw those bombers roll off of the alert pad.

Finally, here, in Puget Sound where Hwy 2 meets its end at our own Straits, the wild waters of Juan de Fuca.

Here's to many new memories on Hwy 2.

5:07 AM  

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