I like this little tradition of writing an eve of April poem just before the start of National Poetry Writing Month. I had written a poem earlier today and when I read the offered prompt of “why not try writing your own poem that begins ‘I guess it’s too late to live on a farm’?” That wasn’t quite the direction my second poem took but it turned the same corner.
Too late I guess, to live the road
where all is fresh at every turn?
No glancing backward in the mirror
at the recent past receding.
Even as the road goes I would go there,
new ways, new folk, and new tales only
and never miss the agéd chair,
the well-worn, paint-less step,
the old cat shining on the floor,
the familiar dishes by the sink.
Each day, new and new again
until with neither sigh nor sadness
I’d meet the past anew as new again:
and stay a moment, then move on.
