Under a Muffled Sun

A poem I wrote about my recent vacation

Woods are so inviting. Clefts in the hills beckon.
Moss yellowed limbs long to be touched.
Curving bright streams wend their way
without me.

Why is it loneliness doesn’t mar the beauty?
Am I the first witness to loving creation?
The train moves past untraveled paths,
uncrossed bridges. The only thing missing is wild life.

Brighter than day by car we travel through
Oregon where the farm land is so black it looks purple.
Then an antelope herd and pelicans on the wharf.
At California’s stop peacocks decorate the lawns.

In the desert five dune buggies bounce around.
Mountains in the distance run beside us,
lifting up their skirts for the next dip in the landscape.
Arizona’s cactus sentinels rim the passing hills.

The Texas folding gray hills and day-turning sky
grumble to the train’s rock and roll beat as we careen by.
Awoke in East Texas’ surprisingly green countryside.
Slept through Hope, Arkansas. Missouri sported redbud.

By birthplace on an Illinois farm may pass as I lapse into a nap.
Homesick for the flowering greenery of spring in Michigan
and my husband of twenty-five years sure comfort.
Similar to this vacation, all I know of wisdom is love never ends.

2 Replies to “Under a Muffled Sun

    1. The trip was enjoyable. I know I’m rather ancient to tour my country. Nevertheless, I feel so confident of our countries strength. I guess because of the breadth of it.

Comments are closed.