Thursday, October 3, 2019
I wrote this poem while I was on my “Southern Tier” bicycle tour. I also kept a journal on the tour, you can read the journal by clicking on the Archive Link at the top of this page and selecting “Southern Tier 2019.”
Grass
Wild grass has gone to seed,
wind bends the long blades,
they dance along side the road,
dancing in unison, a fractal dance.
The blades brush my leg as I roll by
asking me to stop.
I keep rolling,
much to their disappointment
I imagine.
Looking back,
they appear to be waving.
I roll on,
we agree to disagree.
Brad Adkins