Take me as I drive alone
Through the dark countryside.
As the strong beams clear a path,
Picking out fences, weeds, late
Flowering trees, everything
That streams back into the past
Without sound. I smell the grass
And the rich chemical sleep
Of the fields. An open moon
Sails above, and a stalk
Of red lights blinks, miles away.
It is at such moments I
Am called, in a voice so pure
I have to close my eyes and enter
The breathing darkness just beyond
My headlights. I have come back.
I think, to something I had
Almost forgotten, a mouth
That waits patiently, sighs, speaks,
And falls silent. No one else
Is alive. The blossoms are
White, and I am almost there.
Robert Mezey “White Blossoms” from Collected Poems
So much of our lives, we travel in near darkness, barely discerning where we are headed, the beams of the headlights only reaching so far. It is disconcerting not knowing the destination or when the journey will end.
Traveling blind, so to speak.
Yet there is much to see and hear and touch along the way, so we stay awake and pay attention.
We’re almost there. Almost there.