Because sometimes poetry rises

I’m not sure why I’m going to share this with you. Maybe you can tell me. I wrote this poem two summers ago while driving west to east across my home state. It was early morning, and a rainstorm painted the distant horizon. My only passenger, weary with the weight of nine months in Africa, slept for miles, leaving me defenseless against the whims of the muses that dance along the shoulders of lonely Texas highways.
I originally posted this at the Master’s Artist in July of 2008, and I’ve rarely thought of it since. But the past few days it has been poking me in the brain, insisting it must make an appearance here, now. I could stand my ground and refuse, but I have no such inclination, because the magic of the moment this poem was born rises with it. Poetry has a way of taking us where it wants to go. I guess this means you’re invited along for the ride.
East on 287
The ocean is a newborn sky
Afloat with fleets all standing by
Awaiting orders. And I
Am a bullet sunrise bound;
Silver, sleek, I streak below,
Shot like a shaft from an archer’s bow
Pointing home.
Hidden only from the eye
Chariots of fire circle high
Awaiting orders. And I
Can see for a thousand miles,
Deeper, higher, side to side,
But the army stretches ever wide
Marching home.
Small in the midst of so much pain
I watch a water-colored rain
Awaiting orders. And I
Can see where the storm cloud ends
Gray giving way to gentle light
Faith and freedom taking flight
Soaring home.
Wakeful winds whisper near,
Little grasses bend to hear,
Awaiting orders. And I
Am but a heartbeat now
Pulsing in the waters deep
While the child remains asleep
And dreams of home.
All creation bears the weight
Stands alert beside the gate
Awaiting orders. And I
Am a bullet sunrise bound
Shot like a shaft from the Archer’s bow
Never too fast and never too slow
Going home.