Poets' Practice Pad

Destination

The few days we had,
you played your song
amidst the softest touches and gasps
no sensors in the road could detect
when intensity yielded to forever
without any stop signs.

For many years now,
inside my internal radar,
I have believed this:
the few days that took up a lifetime,
was the greatest miracle I was made for,
in spite of all the rock slides,
dead ends, icy shoulders,
tollgates, and traffic circles
I roamed through.

Those few days…what’s left is
the shimmering of remembrance
with no speed limit, no checkpoints,
no yellow, red, or green lights,
no mile markers, no crossings or such,
but the rapturous notes of your flute
left for the muses to dance to,
and for me, to close my eyes
and dream again.