Another autumn is here
and though the seasons
have barely changed,
already I feel a sweet frisson,
a certain blood quickening
that tingles deep inside
like on those childhood nights
when mother would awaken me
in the dark room, and we'd
leave the house and go outside
where my father would have the
big Oldsmobile already packed,
engine running, heater on.
Hop in back, Sonny, he'd say,
and I'd clamber across the seat,
dragging a spare pillow
and Mom's patchwork quilt,
to arranged my comfortable nest.
Sleep. We'll be driving for hours.
But I never did—couldn't,
because as the big car swayed
over winding blacktopped miles,
our night travels promised
those steep Appalachian hills,
a landscape magically transformed
by time and distance,
waiting for me at first light.
And now, another journey begins
and awakens the familiar sensation—
a delicious inkling of adventure
that always comes when setting out
to revisit one of the beloved places
which can still stir my wary heart.