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.