by Thomas Festa 

 

How different the road
from the passenger
seat of your own car— 

I’m teaching my son
to drive on country
backroads, noticing
for the first time
despite the familiarity 

of the route dry stone
wall speeding past
of green quartzite and gray
slate, a black wayside 

creek breaking through ice,
watercress furling along
banks. Pondering why
the word harrow shares
a root with harvest, 

I pump invisible brakes,
swallow welling shouts. 

Our conversations keep
improving the more
we’re together in parallel, 

not face to face but
looking outward, turned
inward, each of us briefly
given permission to learn.