Drive Time Passing

At camp, distance is measured in drive time,

not miles spinning an odometer’s numbers clicking forward,

but minutes’ and hours’ conveyance, time behind the wheel;

even across the lake, the distant shore visible, so close

from my front porch, sitting here as I often do, reflecting

on this short span of time and water separating us,

me from them, them from me, across the rippling waters

of Hebron, wind tossed, that shore is twenty minutes away,

or more, a drive towards town, a mere dot on a map,

and up the hill, rumbling, rocks and dirt sprayed

under my tires, and around the lake’s eastern shore

to the other side on these slow country roads,

roads going nowhere and roads going everywhere;

even the daily chores, groceries to buy, screws and nails,

repairs required, require a distance traveled,

travel checked by minutes slipping by;

and good coffee, not my own, and a baker’s treat

to myself, fresh donuts made, are but moments passing

into quarter hours and halves, hands ticking

on a clock measuring time, measuring distance,

here at camp, the distance between here and there,

from where I am to where I’m headed:

life measured in time passing, not the miles we go.