Driving Back to Morriston

My father wrote about the snow,
and the storm I was born to.
I am driving back to Morriston.
The road is roadless;
with wasps, it seems, reeling down,
numinously white, pure, and
sparking mystery,
before coming down here,
It seems it’s not coincidence that
tonight I turn a year older,
again, in the thousand-year old snow
written moments ago.

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s

This site uses Akismet to reduce spam. Learn how your comment data is processed.