Poem 8, June 8


Driving along a county road


It is only a few weeks after the May Primary election.

I rejoice in the black newness of the resurfaced road.

I drive along the county road wishing I had a camera

or better still a white canvas & oils enough to capture

all the beauty that overpowers my senses.


I stop in the center of the road thinking

a poem surrounds me with the quiet clarity

that Schiller understood when he wrote

a book of philosophy for a German Prince.

Schiller was sick, almost dead broke at the time.


I am alive in the moment. I get out of the car

& stand pensive for a spell looking up into a sky

where white clouds, like cotton balls fill the space

of blues as far as I can see. Grass, the green

of abundant rains, carpets the rolling hillside.


A white piece of nylon rope in the road,

shaped like a snake

moving to escape the intolerable heat

of black asphalt,

is only a white piece of nylon rope.