At a Minute-Per-Day

April 20 2019

On a good day

with little traffic

and green succeeding green

as if I'd slipped something to the maitre d'

and he had waved me on through

with a nod and a sweep of the hand.

Ushering me north

20 minutes, door-to-door.

Driving into the past

at the speed of a day for every minute,

like watching time as it recedes

in the rear-view mirror.

Passing from nascent spring

into winter's dregs.

The heavy snow

is coarse and granular,

its eroded edge

like some moth-eaten garment

that was put away soiled and wet.

And where the lawn ends

the sun, gathering strength

has exposed a thin irregular strip

of dead brown grass

and sodden earth.

The eaves are dripping,

and a pungent whiff of spring

complicates the air,

as the soil stirs to life

and matter decomposes

and the heavy frost recedes.

Returning overnight

like a unwelcome guest

reluctant to leave.

On this height of land,

20 minutes north

of majestic Superior

and the city heat that clings to its shores,

I am a time traveller

on a gravel road.

Winter has dug itself in

and it will take all of early spring

to pry the land free.

Only to return next fall

too soon, as usual.

When 30 minutes south

down an icy road, past leafless trees

the city will still be dressed

in its autumn splendour.