White Blossoms

Take me as I drive alone

through the dark countryside.

As my strong beams clear a path,

picking out fences, weeds, late

flowering trees, everything

that streams back into the past

without sound, I smell the grass

and the rich chemical sleep

of the fields. An open moon

sails above, and a stalk

of red lights blinks, miles away.

It is at such moments I 

am called, in a voice so pure

I have to close my eyes, and enter

the breathing darkness just beyond

my headlights. I have come back,

to think, to something I had

almost forgotten, a mouth

that waits patiently, sighs, speaks

and falls silent. No one else

is alive. The blossoms are

white, and I am almost there.