WHEN THE STOPLIGHT CHANGES

Oak trees without leaves,
black branches, two dimensional
like back roads on an old map.

Cold, gray-draped sky, a curtain
for the practical joke of winter:
wet blackness then gray dampness.

But this morning, the sun seeps
orange, bright beneath the curtain,
its first rays, bent and brittle

on frost-touched streets. At the stoplight
in the next car, a young woman,
her summer-blonde hair free

to her neon green jacket.
She looks past me to the sun,
turning toward its light,

and she is singing. Through the glass
I cannot hear the words,
but I see them forming and know

they’re about falling in love.
When the stoplight changes,
I speed away until

she’s no longer in my rear view mirror,
until the only song is an old song
playing on the radio.

by T.M. Johnson
Previously published in Pembroke Magazine.