her country drive

February 1, 2013 § 2 Comments

when she came back
from her afternoon drive
in the country
I had no choice but to
put my pen away
and turn my uninspired
pages face
down on the desk

and when she said
that she had the
kind of
day that opened
up before her
as the land,
away from the city,
had done,
I could do nothing but
lean against the
kitchen counter,
watch her arrange some
flowers she picked up
at a roadside stand and
listen as she described
how it was so bright
so clear

she said,
the sky was
the color of apricots
early, and later
the color of
Sinatra’s eyes
and the air,
she sang,
smelled
like baby clothes

as she painted
the trip in
this way of hers

I could only think
of myself as
little more
than a boneyard
where beautiful phrases
go to die

(c) 2013 Fred Whitehead

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