The desire to write poetry requires some feeling which isn't always present. Tonight, I tried to write about a dirt road I saw in Meriwether County, between Warm Springs and Woodbury. But it didn't come. No inspiration. Just a dirt road out in the country. It looked like it was abandoned. It led off away from the high way; the vegetation was overgrown. There was little proof of maintenance. I couldn't see any houses up the road. Not even any abandoned sharecropper cabins or some old farm house, falling in with time.
Of course, you never know what you might find down an old rutted dirt road. Deer in a field, safe from September's hunters? The dying of the day played out in pinks and oranges and purples in the western sky? The greys and browns of an old farmhouse, covered with the dark green of the kudzu?
In early Spring, you might find the great-grandchildren of the daffodils planted by some farmwife, spreading out from the remnants of the foundation. In Summer, the evening thunderstorms might cover the telephone lines with the deep green of muscadine vines,left over from earlier plantings. In Fall, the goldenrod might spring up and add its yellow to the dying of the vegetation. And the blue and grey clouds of Winter might bring a sweet melancholy to your drive.
I guess it was poetic, after all.
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