The trucks, huffing and puffing, shift gears with a grind
and groan, to make the incline, while I watch from the sidelines like a fan,
this chilly way with its stiff gusts of wind, making me long for a spring still
two months away.
We should not hurry time when it is already like a leaking
tire, gradually deflating yet in winter, in the deep freeze, we need reprieve,
somewhere in the otherwise inhospitable world where we might find mercy we rare
achieve, rooting for the passing traffic like sports fans, the strange faces of
the tractor trailer drivers looking back down at us through frosted windshields
as they work their gears and struggle to get over this hill where they can down
shift again, our lives, mine, hers and others bound together by some unseen
threads we dare not sever or lose ourselves in the process,
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