Driving home this morning
I join the rolling green hills of the country,
we yawn ourself awake
and push the dew out of our eyes.
Passing the barns and black fences,
I dream a new life for myself here.
A horsehair life,
long and coarse.
In the spring, I'd push seeds into the moist soil
and cross my fingers.
In the fall, I could lose myself in the stalks of gold,
if I wanted to.
I could tear up my calendar,
write a new one on upside-down tobacco
and leafy greens and the sun.
I know I'd be stronger, too.
I'd grow on bales of hay, lifted high,
and on pine wood, axed in two.
But my eyes are on the lines on the road
and I follow them on.