Behold The Mystery

When my mother took us to the lake
my eight year old cheek pressed the half down window.
Hair flew up like the cresting of a wave,
and I looked out, and then down.

And gravel lies next to the road.

The trees promenade the father out I gazed.
A slow illusion it was that I couldn’t comprehend.

Even now I will take mystery over comprehension.
I still marvel when the moon follows me home.

And gravel lies next to the road.

Over the edge of the window the asphalt
zipped by and appeared fluid like shallow river water.
The Buick was moving so fast
except when I looked out on the horizon.

And gravel lies next to the road.

Time rides like a Buick, rocking gently.
The slow turning in the distance
almost wrapping around itself.
Then I look down at the black gray blur.

And gravel lies next to the road.

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