It’s the road that cuts through everything
sparing what little it can
of grassland and woods, the personal property
of farm and heart.
Yet, somewhere en route, the regrets
keep drifting in. Their exhalations spent
like milkweed over stalk or bush. But in one tree
the conscience sings. A vocalist with an old guitar
strumming an old ballad
about love and sacrifice, the moan of sea gulls
( after a storm) and a fisher girl stooping in the tide
to scavenge what’s ever left..