Anne Tibbitts writes

Buried Treasure

Sleeping easy in the big backseat

While dad drives down curves,

Mom reads maps fumblingly

Blue sky hangs low, puffs

On edge at 6:00 a.m. steam

Upwards from a red thermos cup

Chill blows from Dad’s cracked window,

Floats to backseat, underneath a quilt

Where a heart lies open for the taking

Chill flows to that little girl

Hovered under a quilt in the backseat,

Going down a mountain road

Dreams of collecting shells

Or finding buried treasure

Still hanging loosely in the sleepy dawn