Most days, I drive the long and winding roads,
Twisting asphalt ribbons through the hills
Of oak and cedar and mesquite that stand
Rooted atop limestone that cracks in layers.
Often, they are black and grey on brown,
The kiss of the Hill Country sun that comes
Too near too often for our hearts' content.
When, at times, the sky will mate the ground,
Brown will shift to green and green and green,
Making monochrome that still will please
In an age of color. But in the past few days,
Each day has seen a little more emerge
Of pink and yellow, red and purple,
Texan white and blue, standing at the roadside.
I look, I love, but I do not pick up hitchhikers.
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