In a mass of metal, moving. Moving
fast and slow along a worn black ribbon,
worn and wondering on words all born from ‘drive.’
Through glass, blue sky and clouds are breezing by
inviting fresh-brewed castles in the air.
A flash of dream is trapped in mirrored glass,
trees’ shadows caught by window, then by chrome.
Reflection of reflection, distance born
of two pale degrees of separation–
Sky-high freedoms bound in rearview’s plastic scope.
Yet the universe’s words of hope show clear:
“Objects in mirror are closer than they appear.”
-Meg Winikates, 12/09