Interstate 70

a drought has plagued
Kentucky’s usually green grasses
(driest year in recorded history)

so far we’ve racked 4000 miles
on a car that doesn’t belong to us
escaping our own drought
wildfire smoke trailing behind us
along interstate 70

the puffy white wisps
of burning forests
whose beetle-bitten trees
can have peace in heaven

are no comparison

to the sunless sky
on a drought-starved day
when showers won’t stop
and renewal bounces
across horse fields
and wet pavement
as if this is a new tomorrow

can i swallow this rain
can i bury my face
in a bed of furious clouds
and turn my inner drought
inside out so that i can feel
my roots take hold of new life?

i can’t see beyond the greasy
rainsoaked windshield
to find the answer
i left somewhere
along interstate 70

One thought on “Interstate 70

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