Road to Spring… Road to Nowhere
What is that, that sustains us?
Us fragile ones?
I am on a road to nowhere. I know it.
I am. I do. I am.
I won’t be anywhere else even if I am.
Even if I take architecture and admire it
and say “isn’t that lovely” and
“I really admire that granite countertop you have”
I will still be on a road to nowhere.
And for us fragile ones without architecture,
with paper that falls out of our pockets.
Like the best leaves of summer on one dry November Sunday
we wait
for Spring.
Full and sweet and aromatic are the tears I imagine for anyone
who sees what’s past the Golden Gates.
All those tears imagined-oil to pave the road to nowhere.
I live I do what’s best
I live I remember
I am alive I live again.
I’ve seen past the Golden Gates,
broke the wooden planks beneath my feet.
Maybe just once but I do enjoy dancing.
A beautiful woman told me about the Hand of God.
I live with one hand outstretched.
I live as I live I live, as a fragile one.
Sustained.
Sustaining.
Words within.
Gates greet.
No tears to fill the ocean.
But one. two. three.
I know it.
The road to nowhere proceeds.
One. Two. Three.
I’m on it.
I am, I am, I am. I know it. I do. I am.
I live. I do. I really do. I live. I really live. I really am.
Really, I am. I know it. I do. I am.
Poem by Alice Venessa Bever. Painting is “Road to Wishing Tree” by Barbara Hranilovich.
