I ride familiar back roads to fill holes in my life,
to plug fissures where memories seep out
like the hiss of air from a punctured tire.
I travel to places not touched for a while,
meander to answer persistent calls
impossible to ignore.
I traipse the riverbank where our cabin rose up
in arson’s flames, re-visit the stream where
our young spaniels raced on rocky shores,
and journey to the north country barn where
a poet’s words and beloved mountain peaks,
like old friends, salve the ache of loss.
I go to where the push-pull of joy and pain live,
where memory both soothes and gnaws, return
to feel again the rush of air against the heart.