Driving
Grasping this world that seems so solid in motion
and the wheel in my hands so obedient.
Frost-burned weeds out in the fields
wave acknowledgment of December wind.
Others wind down the concrete path.
When did I begin this route through space?
I answer in riddles to my self
but quote experts in debate.
The sun on any cornfield atones.
And any rainbow ties together beauty and truth:
Science has proven that much.
The next town always owns me
motoring across country
in this shell of mystery
that reveals itself layer by layer
until, somewhat like an onion, its pungent center
pervades, but without dissolving.
I will stop again in a few hours
just to rest these restless thoughts,
to refuel the vehicle,
to reorient my faith
that my direction still leans the way
the map leads.
Linda's Literary Home 