Moving On, Not Moving On
by D.R. James

I think I knew our new home
was two states west of home.
But what could that have meant
across that patch of Illinois–treeless,
barren, flat under January snow?

When you were six, shoveling raised
icy walls to walk between, high, cold
narrows. Even cliffs. And from this
distance–now like a cruel cliché–
such isolation, such disjuncture!

But back then, up close? Remember
oblivion to whatever came next?
I envy my own young way: no
routine I would ever know to say,
no bemoaning what lay back east.

Not even an ambition. I played,
shoveled, and rode the bus, moved
into my huge, upstairs room, and
easily made the new best friends
I would only later learn to miss.



 

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