Member-only story
POETRY
Panhandle
The road home is a flat plain, a runway
bisecting a thousand acres, where grain
and cattle reign. Silos scrape the sky. Grey
clouds are a blessing, the sun is the same.
We slide in silence, barely moving by
the monotony of the land. Seven
hours of constant communion with high
heaven laying lightly on earth. Even
the wind flies past without stopping, passing
over and under and through, like time, gone
but also present, its journey stirring
dust and sculpting stone. The road home is long
through the open spaces. The horizon
recedes, keeper of memory’s station.
Always, the longest leg of our journey is through Texas. We make it a point to stay in Amarillo (because we love Amarillo), and the drive from there feels so endless it’s like you’re not moving at all — until suddenly there we are surrounded by the mesquite and oaks of central Texas.
Thank you for reading! The final sonnet from this series (for now??) will run tomorrow.
