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Kate Fadick

Road Trip

 

1

 

This is the day you are lost.

One county road after another

 

then the small town

with the roundabout.

 

Pickups, cars, farm equipment

all circle the monument

 

a red-tail hawk

circles.

 

 

 

 

2

 

The house where you grew up

is being readied for sale.

 

One last visit today,

and you take a pottery

 

bowl, birdhouses

your father made,

 

his rosary. It is the time

hummingbirds begin

 

their courageous migration.

You see only one.

 

 

 

 

3

 

You make a new

map with each trip,

 

take them slow,

these weekly sojourns,

 

skirt what was once

the Great Black Swamp.

 

Its meadows seas of green

that danced with the slightest

 

summer breeze. Its forests

stood full of oak, sycamore,

 

hickory, untouched,

stretched toward the sky.

 

 

 

 

4

 

The autumn gold car rolls in line

behind the sleek black hearse.

 

Rain pulls leaves to the windshield,

and you wonder aloud where all

 

your father was has gone,

spy the hawk circling.

 

An embrace broken

as three Marines begin

 

a slow salute, and you

find your way to the waiting

 

breach in the grass.

 

 

Kate Fadick is "emerging" as a poet at age 67. Interesting work held the muse at bay for too many years, and now she takes long walks, photographs, and has time to read, as well as write, poems. Her first chapbook, SLIPSTREAM, was recently released by Finishing Line Press.