Leaving Bowling Green
It’s always a Sunday afternoon.
Kentucky always has a beautiful
summer sky and warm, sweet
wind. Leaves are restless at my leaving.
I drive as slowly as possible, stretching
my neck to see over my shoulder as
I go. Little smiles, tiny hands wave
‘goodbye’ again in the rear-view mirror.
I turn the corner and head down
a road that only I know. The smiles
and hands are gone and so is my heart.
I leave it there in Bowling Green.
The crying usually stops around
Elizabethtown. The hills and valleys of
Kentucky seem to heal my soul. They
know me well, and this road of my own.
The bridge on the Ohio leads home,
but it’s only a place. The North is cold
and empty. Returning to Plymouth means
I’m right back where I started.