The Morning Commute

Gas pump under yellow light
passes through windows of fog.
Coffee cup spills in cup-holder.

The road — 
and light bleeds into sky.
Mist, like a creature of myth,
shrinks back and is forgotten.

Interstate — 
and the world emerges.
Forests of oak on rounded hills
ask of the driver what’s in them
while the empty cup rattles
with twenty-three miles to go.

Once upon a time
mountains were gracious wardens
of the winding way through them
to the green land and the new life.

Today
dusty oaks spread their red turning
before decaying teeth that cut
merciless revelations of dawn,
but never manage to shut her out.