My Daughter, Finding Her Way

Unfurling

road maps urge her

west, adorn the highways

up ahead with canyons,

caves, with thin

parched waterfalls

and buttes. She stops

to photograph

the sky, its layered

darks and streaks

of light. The road signs

sing the passing

states: Nebraska, where

her dad was born,

Wyoming, Utah, next

Nevada. California yet

to come. She camps

where smells of last

night's rain hang

sweet as fragrance

on a woman's wrist.

This girl who once

called me collect from

Greece: It's the Acropolis,

all lit up at 2 a.m.

still dares the distances

too far for me, still

sees beyond what

I can see. In this she

is her father's child

both trusting in

the truth of maps and

brave enough to find

their way where

maps leave off.

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