The second half of my life will be swift,
Past leaning fenceposts, a gravel shoulder, asphalt tickets, the beckon of open road.
The second half of my life will be wide-eyed, fingers shifting through fine sands, arms loose at my sides, wandering feet.
There will be new dreams every night, and the drapes will never be closed.
I will toss my string of keys into a deep well and old letters into the grate.

The second half of my life will be ice breaking up on the river,
rain soaking the fields,
a hand held out, a fire,
and smoke going upward, always up.

from Crossroads, by Joyce Sutphen (with thanks to writer-friend Margo for the poem)