Slower
The sign says Sixty-Five, but we only go fifty to fifty-five,
for the snow is calling us to synch to its vibe,
then the snow flies horizontally,
so gently, that it does not blind my eyes,
and we go slower still down the Seward Highway,
until the prior cars’ paths are lost in the snow,
and I become the lead tire tracks for those down below,
then up the hillside through the darkness I go,
going slower, and slower, enraptured by the snow,
until I rest in the Lilac, and say good night, I am home.