Interstate-5 - Poem
Ribbon unrolling under my wheels
straight gray path in the desert
sealing the soil of my birth beneath me
lest it touch me, reveal its secrets
lend me its strength, mysteries mighty
root me here, rivet me, keep me from passing.
Here perhaps, somewhere, my afterbirth buried;
this is my land, my source, my place.
I feel nourishment rising from fields to my fingers—
bearfeathers? maybe, and this is my valley.
Holy Joachim, God’s loving grandfather,
you are my ancestor, I am not peopleless.
Roots have I, here and in places my heart has loved;
home have I always in hearts that have loved me.
I may be pilgrim and palmer and quester,
yet all of my wanderings safely are circumscribed
by palms that sustain and always protect me—
there is my name written always and ever.
August 23, 2002
Here, Gentle Reader, you may find a usage of "bearfeathers." The etymology lies in my mother's use of the term "horsefeathers" when she did not want to say horseshit in front of my delicate ears (I guess). Since Bear is my totem animal and I am undeniably ursine, bearfeathers became a phrase used by my beloved ex and me whenever I was spouting something of questionable veracity.