A Sunday Drive
Texas billboards wound my eyes
Every mile apart.
They lure the cars on 35
To burgers and gas marts.
But as I stretch my vision down,
The line of road ahead,
They're nullified when soon I spy
A mass of flower beds.
They aren't the kind that Granny's find
And plant from catalogs,
Always a disappointment when
They bear no fruit at at all.
No, these are weaved among the weeds,
Along the roadside ditch,
They're wildflowers consisting of
Milk thistle perched by finch.
Their purple orbs tall ornaments,
Protruding, taking cue,
From all the yellow yarrow that
Contrasts with robin blue,
That's crowded thick among the mix,
And craves all the attention
The blue bonnets that sit like hats,
On stems that aren't worth mention.
And like the bush twas burning on
The mountain of Sinai,
The paintbrush named for Indians
With their head dresses thrive!
And as my mind reflects upon
This flower popping power,
I never even notice that
the drive lasted for hours.
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