My daughter moved out West,
travels in one of those bands,
the van criss-crossing our country,
leaves dreams like bread crumbs
clawing her way through
brutal, unforgiving woods.
no Grand Canyon, Yellow Stone,
Mammoth Caves, Carlsbad,
but the insides of clubs,
names like racehorses:
We visit on the phone a lot,
retired Father and traveling daughter,
music for a soul,
talk for hours, traversing the nation and our lives,
sharing memories and motel info,
what she ate, how did the show go,
how did merch sell?
Will your tour come our way?
I commiserate with a father,
standing at the edge of his farm
gazing into the horizon
after his daughter and her covered wagon,
headed West to somewhere,
husband, beginning brood of kids,
gear to survive,
and no words.
Originally published in Spindrift