No Pictures

The road was open. That was all
I needed to know to believe
In whatever it was lay ahead.

The aspen groves, last month's gold-robed
Angels, had been reduced to ghosts
Like all ghosts, living as though dead.

The soft skies were promising snow,
But glittering, sunny winter
Hadn't descended on skis yet.

Another one of those moments--
Closing tunnels between seasons,
Apertures anxiety threads,

Chasms to fly one kite across
In hopes of bridging metaphors
That carve chaotic, rocky beds--

That in-between nothing of now,
Darker than could be or has been,
Kept playing possum in my head:

"In my end is my beginning.
In my beginning is my end,"
Fall mountains, calm as clouds, as dread,

Were closing in to convince me
My twisted, scenic, looping way
Was about to be barred. Instead,

The road was open. That was all
I needed to know to believe
In whatever it was lay ahead.