Driveway

The white screen-door,

With olive cracks

In worn pentimento

Opens when—-

Nudges

At the smudged spot—

The shiny place

On the old brass handle,

Locking or releasing

Unto—

The granite porch,

Which, everyday,

Leads down

To sunken rounds of stone,

Unto—

The granite porch,

Which, everyday,

Leads down

To sunken rounds of stone,

Buried in the tufted grass

Calling up the driveway.

In ruts gone deep

To the earthy bone,

Rocks seep up

From down,

Raising ground

And

Making compact

It’s keep.

Deep in rain

The colored ones,

Little pebbles

From the stream,

In reds, blues, greens and cream,

Tumble along

The rainbow drain.

Larger ones

Worn smooth

By the adagios

Of wheels.

Feel permanent:

Stoneburgs

Mostly hidden

Beneath

Waves of dust

Frozen in depth,

They lie unmoved

In the loosening fuss.

Everyday,

The way

Drives out

Onto the road,

Gone somewhere

Lightening the load of stone.

 

 

 

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