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.