I have a story to tell. It is a once upon a time tale. It is a here and now essay. I’ve wandered in and out of seasons--at times I’ve left my mark and at times I’ve vanished quietly away from the story without a trace. But every piece of the puzzle counts. Every piece of the puzzle unfolds into who I have become, who I will be. Writing is my outlet. Words on the page are the place where the working out of my days becomes concrete and traceable. 

Sometimes my stories come out in poetry. Here is a piece of my story. A memory. 

Dust LInes

Crossing Nebraska 1978

The full moon shined

Pouring light on the nighttime world.

Along the highway’s edge,

In the dark of night,

A field lay open to the wide looming sky.

From the corner of his eye he saw it--

Slowly at first

Coming into view--

This old pick up truck

Rumbling across the dirt 

With a lonely trail of dust gathering 

In the moonlight.

The image remained

Fixed forever

In the back of his mind’s eye.

“If I ever made a movie,” he declared,

“I would be sure to have a scene like that,

 Just an old pick up cutting across a field,

 Raising up dust in a long, straight line.”

Now the moon rises in the distance

Behind the hills.

Far away, I can hear the rev of an old engine.

My mind drifts back to a time

When dreams of dust lines

Ran deep across our vision,

When the world lay out flat and long--

Waiting to be sucked in and blown out

By a couple of friends

Shooting toward the horizon.

Elizabeth Mitchell