Nothing in front of me seen

Snow coming down so much
the interstate has disappeared:
I haven’t driven in snow
like this for more than decade,

last time was in Kansas
looking for shoes. Now I look
for something, unknown;
at home in my bed

another woman, belly burgeoning.
And night sky surrounds me,
headlights doing little more
than turning the way white

with heaven-sent flakes,
a covering to mask uncertainty.
I wish for quiet times,
the still of the city stopped

in the first snow, but now
I drive on to raging fires,
the crackling tender
of emotion and life

alive with the flames fueled
by the winds driven with the purpose
of fanning each red tongue,
an orange consuming the yellow,

green turning to black,
a melting away as I drive straight,
praying the road continues,
blind faith the snow leads me

home. In front of me, pure
whiteness and black, a study of contrasts.


Copyright 2003 by Peter A. Stinson.
All rights reserved.
Reproduced by Poetry 360 with permission of the author.