Low fog and high stars,
cold of early morning,
wrested good byes
as headlights pull away
and head for traffic,
a plan we sense
nothing is right about
But the highways of thought
have been rushing awhile before this —
Same jarring lights and traffic jams,
same life-suppressing channels
You go, you come
as do the weeks,
the weekends too short
to let the natural pattern in
Days watch,
whether we notice or not
for when the honor of their pace
will be reclaimed.
©Wendy Mulhern
January 30, 2015
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