Highway

by Mary Brunini McArdle

A cloudy day in early winter
On an ordinary interstate;
Each rise concludes with a descent
To bearded trees of gray,
Pale fog enfolding those
That have already lost their leaves,
While the late shedders
Glow between with red and gold.

Little terrestrial inlets and bays
Appear every few miles or so,
And road beginnings, with no ends.
Or isolated clearing in the midst
Of no one’s property —
Why could there not be found a way
To resurrect those secret places,
Immune against the changes
Wrought by time?