We whispered, not because we had to
but because we chose to.
This was not our church, but
it was our religion and we
worshipped at the altar of youth
in a green Duster on some country
road in Northern Michigan.
On a slow drive, beneath a canopy
of unfazed stars,
we harmonized with Eagles
and lent our imagination to the possibility of
flying away unscathed,
let loose from the fist
of this particular destiny,
We knew we were grander
than roots buried deep here,
in the soil ,
plotted generations ago,
capped by stone and
bearing the names of our fathers.