Wednesday Poem

Rearview Mirror

This little pond in the air is
not a spring but sink into which
trees and highway, bank and fields are
sipped away to minuteness. All
split on the present then merge in
stretched perspective, radiant in
reverse, the wide world guttering
back to one lit point, as our way
sweeps away to the horizon
in this eye where the past flies ahead.

by Robert Morgan
The Language They Speak Is Things to Eat
University of North Carolina Press, 1994