The road is steep ,
lined with tiny bones.
All glittery and cold.
If you look in your rearview mirror before the ascent,
the last ice shavings are welded
to the tallest pine tree.
Go slow, up the road.
The tiny bones are sleeping, but alive.
Whisper a lullaby with rubber tires.
Do not wake the glittery bones.
The road guides survivors who wait.
The road takes the blame.