Flung and wild, white flowers
clung like hailstones or tiny mints of panic
to the overhang’s green ribs.

Jeans toughening in the sun’s detergent
mind, a scrubbed hand-me-down
such as a grandmother’s cooking pot.

Trees fall across the view
and seem to decide we need an occasional glimpse, like prisoners,
of the green valley kneeling in its worn dress.

Tears kick their way out like babies like spirits;
the sharp bends arm themselves – reload their antique Boer revolvers.
God wrote flowers for the wind, and the distances to evolve us.

10/01/2007

Author's Note: After a scenic drive.

Posted on 10/01/2007
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