Six a.m. Along Highway 52
Driving, thinking of a friend
who grew up on an Iowa farm;
how she enjoyed this journey
between our towns in the years
when she could still find her way.
Mist rises, as though all the valleys
were smoldering.
Ponds are swept with this stream.
The sky carries a streak of slate grey.
Early sun behind the clouds
sends out border flares.
Plowed fields, touched with frost,
shows furrows of new green,
the pin stripe in a man's suit.
Corn stubble reflects the sun,
coins scattered across this field.
Will we have breakfast on her porch?
Will she remember who I am?
Patricia McNair
May 27, 1992, 11-20-96
1-22-2000, 1-31-00