When I need an uplift for my weary soul and to clear my muddled mind.
I slowly cruise along a country road to see what treasures I might find.
I leave behind the frenzied traffic on the four-lane interstate,
To enjoy bucolic vistas along a gravel road, my languid soul to sate.
I see old barns with Mail Pouch Tobacco ads now faint due to age,
And remnants of Burma Shave signs with their charmin' adage.
Stately homes with white picket fences grace the country road,
With roses of every hue surroundin' emerald lawns all neatly mowed.
I cross a rickety wooden bridge 'neath which country boys are fishin',
And for long ago summer days of feckless youth, it gits me to wishin;!
A lady waves to me as she hangs her laundry on the clothesline to dry.
A sign on the old country store reads, 'Wave If You Can't Stop By!'
Farmers on John Deere tractors wave as they tend their fields of grain.
They sure kick up lots of dust and I reckon they're prayin' for some rain.
I rolled down the windows to savor the wonderful scent of new-mown hay,
And slow to let an Amish family in their buggy move along the way.
Fat cattle graze on lush meadows, each with a meanderin' stream.
Horses gaze at me over fences as they look askance and dream.
I loathe interstates where folks think they're in the Indy 500-mile race.
I prefer old country roads where life is enjoyed at a much slower pace!
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I love retaining walls, their sandwiched stones
with daisies pushing through their moss toupees.
A vasty field that weds blue bachelors
to legs of Queen Anne's lace... perhaps a stream
along the side, if not a smallish lake
where frogs and ambered autumn trees admire
soft reflections as they please. The clapboard,
pale green, and shutters, iron-hinged, succeed
the grouted rocks the garden shed displays.
The turret's roof boasts perfect disks of slate,
creates a moire pattern in the sun.
Bevelled windows waver like a dream
and sparrows flit inside the outhouse, twitter
through the wink of crescent moon. My craning
neck is sore. Such verdancy along
this country road, my envy's lush abode.
is like goin' to an art show:
a whirlpool of broken glass beneath a fallen willow,
the strokes of squirrel tails,
leaves upturned like armada sails,
the artfully blank canvas of a field of corn
with subtle variations of tone.
It makes you want to stop the horse, step down
and meet the artist, but he left town.
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