DETOUR

DETOUR

 

Spattering of almost-snow on the windshield.

Derelict barns, old pastures gone to brush.

A few horsey places with megahouses,

a small organic farm. I’m a Vermonter. 

I know that all back roads sooner

or later lead to somewhere I recognize.

This one—a self-selected detour

around construction on the highway

between the hospital and home—winds through

vaguely familiar land. I know I’m heading west. 

It’s still the Valley, my valley.

And here around the bend a cluster

of houses, and beneath the clouds I see

the mountains and the long lake’s gleam.

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