2River View, Fall 2002, issue 6.1
Just above the road there was
this pale hand waving at me.
Dust and ashes rose in the sun,
The trees seemed to be in winter.
Their long, crooked limbs poked
into my eyes. I stepped
on patches of ice. It could
have been cotton, hardened
to disguise its proverbial softness.
No slipping, I told myself. This
road is long but it will end.
I followed the dry spikes of the fence.
I felt almost happy.