March 24, 2016
Driving, it catches peripheral vision,
a swash of graffiti,
fire red paint on the yellow yield sign.
A change in colored light, a flash on the side of the road does startle.
The distraction of sprayed color
disturbs the passing view of corn and cotton,
soybean and pecan.
Soothing it was passing fields that were planted as if pages in a book.
But I was driven, driving.
I did not note the words.
The faster my driving,
the more quickly I read, and the more overlooked.
The flash of bright red interrupted
the quiet flying rhythm as it fed a break in turning farm row pages.
The field’s book has now attention paid it.
Smooth movement now is staggered.
As rain languidly transforms more the view,
reading each line now requires the slowing speed so as to catch each word before it runs down the leaves,
to the dirt,
on the backs of rain droplets.
Crops as words in his field, the farmer oversees.
The author he is.
If country road drivers flip pages too quickly,
missed is meaning and heart of his dirty, earthy written lines.
Slow down the pace.
The complete story then can be read, even with peripheral intruders
and rain to drown the words.
With concentration, with slower pace,
the pages’ words can be caught as they fold into ditches.
To be sure, the rain with dirt will deliver again the story.