August in America


It was August when we left for the land we know so well.

Over tired roads in blistering heat,

The pavement pounding to the beat,

Of August in America.


The crops were full in the fields.

Countless trucks, ant like, carried their bountiful yields.

Along ribbons of asphalt saliva, to storehouses of plenty,

In colonies called suburbia.


Like the Monarch following the milky weed,

We carved across the country chasing our need.

To reach the cool North with its distant trees,

Its brilliant blue waters, and its calm, eerie peace.


The grime of a thousand miles shone on our faces,

As we ate gasoline, road fumes, coffee and food as fast as the car we drove.


They said we shouldn't go, saying,

"Why don't you just take a plane?"


But, what do they know of newfound vistas opening wide,

Of road kill smells, and clouds high and wild,

Of the flavor of clover newly mown,

Of sunrise and the newborn morn.


What do they know of kindred faces.

Of friends and family in their traces,

And now that they are older,

The young seem to forget and grow colder.


You can fly off to a packaged spot,

And call it vacation if you wish.

But I'll drive a thousand miles to see the face of one I miss,

And return renewed.


In America.


Copyright 1997 © Ronald W. Hull




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