Wind driven then trapped by ditch or fence,|
Gathering, piled one upon another, they congregate
Along with trash and debris by litterbugs dispensed
Just off the shoulder of the flat interstate
The crisp, dried tumbleweeds silently wait...
For that sudden blast of dusty air
Which will lift and propel them, bumbling
Over wire shackles that cling and ensnare
And onto the pavement, tumbling,
A rolling, elliptical, woody tangle, rumbling...
To, hopefully, the most fitting and delightful end
For a once green and shallow rooted Sage,
To be hit by a roaring vehicle and into smithereens be spent
Or, best of all, be lodged beneath and into flames rage
From friction and for but a moment beheld as a comet ablaze!
Joseph I. Middlesworth
© 2019 ishmael
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