Hemlocked Heart

My green little car flies home down the highway.

The wind rushes by, long called to the heart of the sky.

My windshield a portal between the mythic and I.

Carry off workplace worries, as fumes, to the grey.

Wrenching off soot and bile I'll leave them behind.

Each little worry an itch, stitch, pain in my side.

They'll swirl into clouds adrift low in the ether,

Til, listing, they'll carry my venting on high.

To lofts here untraveled by song or by praise.

My worries find home in Zephyrus' fresh sigh.