Slick roads. A thousand tires stir the water
in a broken rhythm echoing off concrete.
Brakes squeal, a helicopter passes overhead,
not the first or last today.
All around me people start another work day
that begins, and will end, in traffic.
People say this is the country,
but in the rain I hear city.
So where’s the country?
Is there any left?
Now I hear the gentle tap of rain on roof and leaves.
Cat purrs, washing beside me. Dog snores. Husband stirs
in the other room, at rest in our island of peace.
Birds sing as the sun lightens clouds in the east.
I think about planting seeds and pulling weeds.
Oh — the country is here.
Copyright © 2007 Barbara W. Klaser
I live in the middle of a small resort town; I consider my small patch of land a country haven. When I’m home, I feel the peace that I thought I could get only by living directly in the country.
I can still feel connected to Mother Earth, it seems, even if there are other houses within a few yards.
Comment by Marion — 4/21/2007 @ 1:15 pm
The beauty of the country memories and experiences is that they can be summoned at any time at all, and they do not lose their poignancy or their power.
Comment by Cate (KerrdeLune) — 5/14/2007 @ 11:46 am