Getaway

by Joanne Epp

Two hours, maybe, just far enough to shift
from aspen parkland into spiky grass
and sandy soil—an afternoon away,
as much as time off work allows.

At a roadside picnic ground we stop,
pull out ball and glove, Frisbee, cooler chest.
Cloth to cover the table’s peeling paint,
graffiti. In the chest, tuna sandwiches,
fresh-picked lettuce, radishes, iced tea.
Chocolate cookies iced with vanilla.

Wild roses fill the ditch, flat
pink blossoms sweet
and soft as talc.
I wade in for a sniff,
mingle their scent with dust
kicked up from tall grass.

It’s possible to know there’s more
and not want it. It’s possible for this
to be enough: the cottonwoods’
dry patter, and underneath it
our voices (small, without echo);
a meadowlark, a killdeer;
the approach and retreat of a single car.

— from Juniper Volume 2, Issue 3