Small, petite, bob cut blonde hair.
Thinking the road offered something,
someplace to go to, someplace to find,
someplace where her people were waiting.
A loyal dog, scruffy and goofy, better than a boy.
He sat content in the passenger seat, watching
the sun rise and fall and rise, getting fussy
in the evenings, so she’d stop to let him run.
In the mountains, in the hills, among ancient things,
she’d drive, her and her mutt dog, exploring, watching,
finding in fleeting moments, grace and peace and hope.
She hoped to see the Pacific by the time the season turned.
And, somewhere along the way, she side stepped daylight,
stepped away from the waking world, found the Fae, or,
walked in the spaces between the air. Her loyal dog crying
for her, by that battered jeep, deep in the Oregon forest.
Maybe she is free now, of the weight of thought and flesh.
Maybe she was taken underground, taken to ghosts forever.
Her loyal dog now lays at my door, and he watches for her.
Her whines when the sun goes down. Does let me touch him