I can see that the next block
is the long, broad avenue of and.
I pass by the cul-de-sac of but,
arriving at the divergence that is or –
paths of possibility, the corner of choice.
My finger slowly traces the curving way
to your valley, lush, fragrant and dewy
in this gray, dry season that inhabits
where I am today wanting to come
to you, but too tired to journey.
Even on the ride through the woods,
I am immersed in these whirling electrons.
Car tech and radio from a satellite,
a phone that is so confidently smart
it thinks it really knows my destination.
The wind draws topographic maps with the snow.
Topography: from Greek “place” and “write.”
Surface shapes and features of this mini-planet.
Contour lines show the rise and fall
of snow and melt. It’s climate changing.
At the antipodes – youth and old age –
an estuary: wild river meets calm sea.
An atoll of hope rings my island.
On this worn multicolored map of relief,
a compass rose showing all possible directions.