I could not find the damn general store, though I nearly wore down those ragged country roads

Famous, the signs swore,
and though they had pointed me forward, I circled like a fallen leaf, windblown
And when at last I discovered my mistake—a wrong turn—it was too late,
with a CLOSED sign turned to face me

I drove past it and tipped my hat and tried to laugh,
heading back to the interstate, one less feather in my cap of memories

And yet
all these months later, what remains
is indeed a memory:
of that blue-gray winter-day

The clouds had swelled up in cobalt and slate against the flat land
and the trees stood stock still, like sentries;
while I searched at their feet,
the greening earth tilled, aware only of sky and spring

So I remember trying to find a place,
and the act of searching but not finding—
how it wore a small road through me,
softly widening
as I let go and, even now, simply drive on

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