We live for mud and potholes
Rural Sonnet #3
Our roads out here are covered in debris -
A winter's worth of cracks and holes and pits,
The asphalt honeycombed with fissures wee
and great. A mire in the center sits
In wait to swallow whole the car or truck
That dares to venture far into the wild
And messy reaches of the mud and muck
Unleashed by winter - by the monster child
Of spring, whose tantrums roar and wail in rain
And wind and hail, whose clutching, sucking, grasp
Refuses to let go who tries in vain
to travel here. Avoid the miring clasp
of country roads in spring. Far better yet
to wait a month or two until mud's set.
Yep. For more rural poetry, see Sonnet #1 here and Sonnet #2 here. Enjoy.
