The road home

Sunday sermons disappear,
Receding in the rear-view mirror;
A roadside pond comes into sight—
Earthly eye, celestial seer.

At the fork I ease to right,
Following the morning light
Underneath the piney stands—
Broken branches, dusted white.

Here the narrow road expands,
Tools between tobacco lands;
Tidy houses, neatly nursed,
Lead me to the poets’ strands.

Tennyson, the first traversed,
Stately silent, couplets terse;
Buttles next, serenely steeped;
Next, Walt Whitman’s leaves of verse.

Shelley’s is the final street,
Making poets block complete,
Nestled round Three Corner Lake,
Rimmed with cottages, replete.

Would that I could boast a stake
In Poets’ Corner real estate;
My lot is but to let it lie—
Homeward bound, the road and I.

Copyright 2012 © Brian T. Maurer


One comment on “The road home

  1. David Elpern says:

    A worthy poem for a frosty morning. Mahalo!

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