Fog and Thistles

might take you to the green

of British Isles,

for me it’s the early morning roadside

along highway twenty-seven.

East into a blinding sun,

to god knows where.

I follow a map,

take some pictures,

talk to strangers,

fall in love with new dogs.

Long after the fog

has burned off,

this is no sea coast,

only inland karst,

and yet the thistles remain,

tall and slender,

purple heads later

to be clouds of parachute seeds,

but at the moment,

there is only me,

the thistles,

the fog,

and the brilliant sun

burning through to reach

my squinted eyes.