White Blossoms, Robert Mezey

Take me as I drive alone
through the dark countryside.
As the strong means clear a path,
picking out fences, weeds, late
flowering trees, everything
that streams back into the past
without sound, I smell the grass
and the rich chemical sleep
of the fields. An open moon
sails above, and a stalk
of red lights blinks, miles away.

It is at such moments I
am called, in a voice so pure
I have to close my eyes, and enter
the breathing darkness just beyond
my headlights. I have come back,
I think, to something I had
almost forgotten, a mouth
that waits patiently, sighs, speaks,
and falls silent. No one else
is alive. The blossoms are
white, and I am almost there.

Tags: poetry