Milestones

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His last milestone in the road now lives in my garden.

A yellow sign, shaped like a triangle,

symbolic of I don’t know what, yield to god,

or wear your seatbelt,

or don’t drink and drive?

I’ve deleted and repeated

rather than cross out and erase.

My brain, as thick as cotton candy only not as sweet,

needs a jolt of caffeine, a shot of adrenalin,

a kick in the proverbial ass.

What is a milestone in the road, anyway?

Is it that deer someone left oozing on the pavement,

or the markers that tick by ad infinitum

so people can judge the distance travelled and the speed of their vehicle.

Isn’t that what speedometers are for?

Perhaps the milestones are more like the flowers in the garden,

that grow taller each and every year,

the corn stalks that soak up the hot rays of sunlight

and inch ever closer to the sky,

the blueberries that bunch up like marbles, begging me to eat them.