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Post Road Magazine #34

Now That Our Children Are Grown

Lowell Jaeger


Last miles of winter’s mess melting
on the roadside, the pass open again
late May, a shortcut we’ve hurried
a thousand times before, the kids
in the backseat coaching us to race
forward, forward, forward toward . . .
well, toward whatever comes after.

Unaccustomed to traveling alone,
we’ve rolled the windows open
and slowed into a turnout near the summit
where rivulets of runoff gather
over tufts of meadow grass, moss, and mounds
of scree.  Where the creek begins
its run again for ocean, for sky.

We lay our picnic blanket
beside the stream. Eat your sandwich,
my wife says.  A small village of violets
are forcing through loam to bloom.
Oh precious world, you last well past us!
I roll my cuffs and wade
into the cold flow, till my feet are stone.



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