you are the greatest distance I’ve ever traveled
you are the cool, dry north in the midst of summer
and the wet, cold east in winter
you are western waters I never thought to see
and you are southern home
you are cramped planes
and double-decker busses
you are overstuffed luggage,
weighed, emptied, and repacked
weighed, emptied, and repacked
you are cross country drives
pilgrimage
two people
two dogs
too much stuff
to fit
but we always seem to fit
you are sunsets in the rear view
and adventures ahead
bookstores and sex shops
and beaches and songs
you are the full moon flicker on my dash like a strobe
night pine silhouettes on the highway
you are always something new
something more
seven years
like seven days
like seven decades
like never stop
being
who
and what
you are