Issue Forty-Four - Summer 2024

The Way Home

By Richard Widerkehr

Sometimes when I walk home on the road,
mist sits in the hills, dividing their dark green
from darker green. There’s the lake,
then hills and mist and hills and sky–
the white mist like a river floating sideways
up the hills, spread out in billows,
thinning into bits and scraps. It’s as if
things had become clearer, more themselves.
The gray sky lets in more light than I expect.
It seems so close, piled up on the hills
like a second lake. And someday I’ll go
far away, not on a road, maybe deeper
into green and white, and there won’t be
windows, doorsills, paper, socks, or spoons.

First published by Bitterroot and reprinted in The Way Home by Richard Widerkehr (Plain View Press).

Copyright 204 Widerkehr