Virtue of the Day: 4

Diligence.

Holy shit! SO much to do. At least I have the first draft of this poem:

Becky Adams
Driving to Marquette

Thanksgiving now, according to the clock,
and we're only twelve miles out of Naubinway.
Blizzard snow scrubs out the pines,
the road, the other cars, the white reflectors
meant to guide us in these crap conditions --

(I write a haiku for the white reflectors:
how fucking stupid
to post those white reflectors
here in the U.P.)

and a wendigo is howling for our souls.
I can't see anything but flying snow
zip-whipping at the car and feel like Captain Kirk
piloting the Enterprise at warp-speed
through a space-time rift. My best friend
is asleep. The phone is out. I wonder
if the Munising police, who stopped us fifteen miles
or so ago to tell us that our creeping Suburu
was a hazard to the ambulance,
(which wasn't out)
and weaving over the line,
(which wasn't visible)
and moving through a blizzard,
(which we knew)
are following. The dark is darkly white. The white
is whitely dark. I wonder if the sky back home
is wet and gray above my sleeping family.