There is moonlight
on corn stubble
by the side
of a highway.
The moonlight
is a Gypsy
a profligate
reflected child
and yet it kisses
the corn stubble, denied all wandering
except into death
where it has already gone
by the side of the highway
which only runs
east or west
north or south
this way or that,
never varying,
like an office worker who has been there
for far too long.
My bones are a tarmac
that I have traveled on from earliest memory
to this very moment.
I am an old barn, gone gray.
No one touches me
and I touch no one
except with these poems.
I write them
to keep from screaming.
I wonder,
where does this road end?
Am I a cornhusk doll
in the hands of time,
or am I moonlight--
a messenger from a mother a million miles away?
I have been a child,
a partner,
a parent,
a friend,
a cautionary tale
and rain in the desert.
Now I am tired
though I still love leaves
dogs,
sunrise,
books,
poetry.
If I lay down in the moonlight
between the old rows
near where the semi trucks rumble
going here
or there
could I rise
into firmament?
Is all of this some kind of holy circle
or would I just turn to dust
inside my flannel and wool?
I will ask the corn.
I will ask the traffic.
I will ask the moonlight.
I will ask the night
that has wrapped me from cradle to grave
and if it answers
I may get up in the morning
and call you--
yes, it's me
and I am as surprised as you are.
________