The fog settles in among the
hardwoods ahead—hickory, oak,
maple, walnut, and pine—on this
mountain road I now travel alone,
nearing my destination. Clouds
sweep across the distant sky,
revealing a radiant quarter moon.
Come morning, you will have departed,
leaving only dust, like the ashes
that remain after a fire has been
extinguished. I know there should be
more than this, or less, but I’m
grateful for what we have. You’ve
transformed me, the way a river
carved into the body of this
mountain long ago, leaving streams
and waterfalls in its path.