The End of the (Seven Bridges) Road

I think we all (of a certain age) dreamed of deciding

to go,

of following the stars

in the southern sky,

of being loved tame and being

loved wild,

of standing beneath the trees

in moss filtered moonlight.

I find trepidation in the hints of what

might lie beneath the shadows on that road.

Perhaps it is my tendency to

over think,

but what if we were to go,

what if we were to cross

the seventh bridge

and reach the end of the road

with the taste of honey

sweet on our tongues?

What if we never find it again,

or some other road

which calls the soul,

or another taste so sweet,

or stars so warm?

What if there was never

anything better,

or, perhaps more,

what if there was?

January Brown

​It is an ugly time of the year

in Georgia,

brown is the prevailing color.

The brown of dead Bermuda on the lawns,

the brown of trees stripped of all

but crisp, brown straggler leaves refusing to fall.

It is the brown of dried mud tracked into every home

and left on every carpet,

the clearly marked pathway of repetitive lives.

The clouds are low, soiling themselves

as they drag through the dirt,

tomorrow the dirt will return to mud

for it will surely rain,

rarely cold enough for the fleeting joy of snow,

just cold rain and mud,

always, there is mud,

and tracks on the carpet.

January brown is the brown of wet wood

and pine straw littering a forest floor,

it is the rusted out carcass of an old car,

it colors the mood and dampens the soul

like a shallow mud puddle

laid across your path.