The morning we arrived, pepper exploded in scrambled eggs
made, by Dad, with butter, pipe-smoke and an absence
of everyone else.
The journey splashed through a night’s deep, salted snow.
No company, other than songs. Later, back and forth
I drove, looking for home.
Trees flew by as I traveled black ribbons through fog-covered
hills, tea at hand to frighten cold away, speed-dueling
with a red-colored car.
Note: This is a work in progress, with a new focus for me: how to make a poem sing using as little lyricism as possible. This is a failure, right now. I’ve been immersed in technical and business language for many weeks, with any exposure to art being visual rather than verbal. I know what I want to do, but don’t have the skill to do it — and my mind is not in the right place to do more — just now. Yet for the sake of process, it’s important to share this publicly, as the notion of audience affects how I think as I write.
