by Kim Roberts


The journey starts in the morning,
the sun dropping its thick coins of light
into my eyes, blinding me with promise.

Sometimes it’s better not to see gold and white
that you can’t quite meet straight on,
the peripheries of cars and trees,

the objects of faith
that glow hot with possibility,
the edges of knowing, heat rising

against the crispness of the air.
This is the start, I whisper.
The miracle is that there is always

a place we call the start,
there is always a road, the sun
bouncing off and shimmering.

-Originally appeared in
Minimus,Volume 9, 2000.