Robert Verdon, #87, The Bridge

the calm light of March

not a breath of wind

apiary hum of traffic

hills like hand-wrinkles

that feeling of gratitude

for seeing farther

the shadow of a butterfly

closer to redemption

the older I get

the more I feel

like a kid on a bicycle

front wheel turned now

away from the abyss

staring at the sky

not back at the road

light as the mist

obscuring the edge

scanning the skyline

for signs of a bridge