There are roads in the hometown of my heart

for which I have lost the names.

Flocked darkness in stubbled fields.

Winter. My map continues to fade.

Dark geese arrow

through dishwater sky–

I depend on their direction

to feel less alone.

In dim flat light

I briefly

locate my longing, yet

misty source resists

articulation.

Naked landscapes still

feel for feathery pulse

of forever half-frozen highways.

Under wingbeats

I remember

how often I forget–

Amidst vastness of

winters of wanting,

all I need is the simple

feeling

of lift.

Beth Gallovic has been seen on the hiking trails around Boulder, Colorado, pulling out creased squares of paper from her backpack to scribble down lines of poetry. She marvels, often, and especially outdoors, at what an expansive force poetry has become in her life.