Caley and I are rolling through Nevada on our way back to Colorado. Thanks to the marvels of technology, I can catch up on my blogging as we ramble along. This piece has been hanging out in my Moleskine for a while. It is one that I set to paper during an impromptu trip to Big Sur in February.
Big Sur, The Final Poem
There is a place where the road slides left and right, East and West with hot black indecision.
There, the trees defy time, craning skyward, clock hands stuck at noon
while time peels away like shedding red bark.
The mountains there slip into the sea as deftly as only vertebrates can,
then the tide greets them, kissing cheeks like old friends.
In this place, nostalgia is a way of life shouldered by those who wait through the seasons.
Those who count years in rings and chip happiness from fissured rocks.