Shadow Routed Folk

Your quaint country road
snakes unwinding through woods
leaving no not one
none of your troubles behind--
as they drag like a vintage
trailer on four hissing flat tires

Mark my word: mark it well:
trouble will spring ahead
-- stop you dead in your tracks
at each hard hairpin turn
staring pinholes into dim delusion
like a startled young doe
gleaming damp-bright but brittle
in the blinding headlights

Every crossroad & fork
will test your resolve
in a clutter of signs
that confuse all direction
with circles & arrows & pithy
commands that defy comprehension
yet demand full attention
in clear contradiction
with the long-cherished heart
of your harsh-hammered inner conviction

(Still you plunge on ahead
into thick tangled night
through the moon's dented swelling
& spilled orange wash
as it pools deep about
the fresh-felled oak scars...)