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the thread between us
The street moves beneath us,
shifting without command,
we say we walk freely,
but the road has already been carved.
Someone chose its shape
long before our steps left their weight.
A voice rises, measured, cautious,
another shouts before listening—
the argument swells, ripples outward,
each side gripping their claim
like dry earth clinging to rain.
What if the road is neither theirs nor ours?
What if we pull too hard,
and the thread between us frays?
This world tilts in fractions,
some lean into history,
others push toward tomorrow—
the balance flickers,
a candle resisting the wind.
This comment may be a bit
This comment may be a bit verbose. That first stanza really touched my soul deeply. My grandfather worked for our County Engineer (who hired him when the Crash of 1929 caused the loss of his car repair shop). My grandfather built small concrete bridges over rural creeks and culverts. My father also became worked for the County Engineer, and, as a surveyor, he was considered by his peers and crew members as an artist on the transit. They said he turned an angle once, and once only; and the angle was always correct. The belt (three lanes in each direction) that surrounds our city was surveyed by my father when it was just a set of unconnected roads. I always feel safest when riding on this road. His design for a dedicated highway exit for our international airport, an exit that branched off the major East-West interstate highway, was accepted by the state, constructed, and now prevents the many fender-benders that used to happen in the small town next to the airport. During the summers of 1975, 1976, and 1977, I had the privilege (which I did not appreciate fully back then) of working with some of his survey crewmen (he had been promoted to traffic control at that time). I also did surveys on the rural roads near my grandfather's bridges. My father was very "macho," but he acknowlegded that he knew my friendship with BlueShift had become Love, and he did not condemn me for it. The first stanza of your poem brought all that back to me.
Starward-Led [in Chrismation, Januarius]
Wouldn't have it any other
Wouldn't have it any other way. And though we came in via CVG (2016) we drove around a lot and there is that thrill in knowing that we would've been motoring on part of that beltway built by your Granddad! Our self-guided tour of the Wrigh Brothers aviation history would have put us in that vicinity. At least that's what I am lead to believe
here is poetry that doesn't always conform
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