October Road

Driving half asleep to you,
through the land that has been,
with my hand on the dog
that will soon be no more,
I count that I have half been, too,
my hair the color of fading fire.
The dog and I have already been marked for a new way,
Coming closer to the place where we began.
In her old age, she’s become a pup again;
we both forget what we’ve learned, now and then.

I’d like to watch again for the crow
on the downward glide,
to see that one feather turn up at the wing’s tip.
--to find the thread that veined the leaves
before they flamed and curled,
then follow it—awake—to the end.
--to know you understand,
and you’ll wait, my friend.