A journey of wheels and flat plains.
The mountains dark with their blue
brooding presence
after miles of sun and dust.
Memories flying by.
The vacant hollowness of old grief.
Youth stirring again
like a wisp of air,
short lived,
a trailing from the past.
The past returning in broken boxes,
seeds on the ground,
itself almost dust,
lifted in the air in nets of light
and shadow.
The mother remembers,
remembers the old places
in her heart,
the call of strange birds,
the children of her youth.
Paths and roads leaving indelible shadows.
And she is on the move again,
leaving part of her brood behind.
Like the pioneer
who knew she’d never return,
never see her family again,
to save the last child needing her.
A few moments of time to be together,
to say goodbye,
a few sunsets,
a few aching, miserable dawns.
She turns away from the truck’s window,
hugging the past inside her,
like a stillborn child,
her face bare as stone,
not smiling.
And the father looks in the distance,
his fate written in the need of a child,
the banners of war curled up.
He is tired and worn,
like a ledge
overseeing the road ahead.
It goes on and on,
and he wonders how far he’s gone.
How long anything lasts.
How deep his caring,
which like a wave will crash defenseless on the sand,
and be no more.
The world lives a longer day than his.
When will it end?
Where will his children go?
He feels the loss of his soul.
He longs for Taiwan.
The journey is too long.
In time,
everything finds a place,
and ends.