Rolling along the Blue Ridge
on a foggy Virginia morning.

My brother lives down there
where Jefferson rode his fields.
I cannot go see him now-
I am wandering somehow
sent north along this ridge
by some mission to remember.

The fog like soldier's ghosts
comes up to greet me as miles
roll off beneath my wheels.

The whole valley steeps in
sadness
Red Star Express,  Golden Rule
Homes
For Sale signs everywhere along
all the roads not taken.

My father's hand reaches out
a hand under a child's belly
swimming for the first time
(outside the womb that is)
then the hand is gone forever.

Float or sink:
there is always
this decision.