A song the white road makes

a few weeks after the snows
the roads salt-
sown rise like dead man's
bones, ghost-white against
the gritty snow while
high up the feeble sun
falls like grandma's sunday morning hymn
sung softly down upon the wild
tumbleweed of cirrus vapor
sputtering its pointless
challenge to the absolute
impenetrable cerulean empire

here is what i thought
as i watched
out our speeding window:
the road dressed white
tells us how each path has
its own medicine, the spirits
that brought us together
and pull us apart
each flake of traffic
unique, blowing slantwise
under this clear winter sky
like beasts of war all is unknown
but on, on, onward our only guide
our tusk-tips

and this came blustered then:
O salt-sown, Carthage thy walls
shone diamond bright unto the verge
of atlas, a wight in wing flying down
upon mediterranean too-blue water warns
of budding empire's might
your dreamer of plans all caught upon
cruel Pyrenean heights, O winter
these poor beasts are not made to war thee.

is there no other road
no road but these of sprawling bones?
the song though softly surges on

take my
hand, either there is a way
or we
shall make one.