highway eighty-four ran due east across the
Central Texas night, I remember the moon
rising over the top of the telephone poles
the road was lonely enough for me to turn
my headlights off in deference and drive
in the dark to the light as if I would reach it
every Sunday night after, I drove and waited
for the moon, but it happened only once
how does one keep once-in-a-life time?
all the sands in the hourglass aren’t enough
to make a beach to hold a tide to pull
the moon close again, close enough for me
to turn off my lights and trust what I can’t see
to find myself lost in the night and light
I don’t drive that way much anymore
down all the days, could it be enough now
to say, one night I drove into the moon
and not need it to happen ever again?
*this poem was prompted by the Poetry Party at Abbey of the Arts.
Nice image and provocative question, to which I can only answer a solid “I don’t know; but I’ve wondered the same thing myself.”
What a lovely poem. Such an experience caught in the frame of a poem, it can happen again.
I’ve never seen the moon in Texas, but this happens for me, in my backyard, every night.
I love the experience you capture here and the longing to live into it again. The “could it be enough” question is one I ask myself about a lot of things these days. Thanks for participating in the poetry party!
“I don’t drive that way much anymore”. And yet, somehow from everything you write, I think you do.
Makes me remember…Hico to Meridian to Clifton south to 84 into Waco…
I don’t drive that way much anymore, either. But long Texas roads lend themselves well to turning out the lights and absorbing the darkness at 75 mph.
Beautiful. I’ve turned off the lights to the car at night too, on a lonely road.