Wynne Morrison

When we go down let’s go down slow,
like our ancestors crossing the plains.
Travel was work then—months
in a wagon, nothing left behind
likely to be seen again. Family, homes,
the way blackbirds gather in the fall.
We cover the distance now in a nap,
fueled by a small percentage of a war.
I want to hold you like I didn’t
have somewhere to be tomorrow,
see a hint of you by lamplight
without this artificial glare.
I want what I have made precious,
by its being all I can have.