I have a love-hate relationship with a bridge
crossing the Hudson between Kingston and Rhinebeck.
A long, arching, curve,
so high and steep
that when driving up one side,
the other end is unseeable.
I become a sailor on the Santa Maria
waiting for the drop off
at the end of the world.
When I cross, heading West,
on a late Autumn afternoon,
the Catskill ridge
glows in a rainbow golden sunset.
I enter Heavens gate in an aging Honda.
But, heading east on an ice-stormed Winter midnight,
I am forced to follow
a dimly lit row of fog shrouded pearls
into an unending darkness,
where only by the evidence of things not seen
am I justified in driving on
into the substance of things
devoutly hoped for.