We Are the Road

We travel on, across turn
and tumble, down a dusty scrub,
cast out and welcomed

wildly at the same time.
There is no map of legend
for this country,

so we make markers
and memory stones as we can.

I don’t care what they say—
I won’t forget, won’t be the same,

finding ways to welcome
others to the table, while other
doors are shut.

We live out of suitcases,
these portable selves, tipping
a hat, taking a sip,

pausing to say: Hello,
it’s a new day again.

A new turn to discover.