I live on what I think of as a lane a country lane and over the sides rush in golden rod and clover and the blue flowers up and farther on there are cows brown, black, all fat and marketable along this lane and in the morning if you bike up to the end you get a glimmer and a feel of what lane can be there are static pauses and with each turn of the lane, turn of your head, you get another glimmer and they break the breath, though officially and truly I the city-spawned would suspect - a true bona fide wizard of ox lane is all dirt - hard brown dirt that sticks into your toes and feels good in the summertime, our lane here is not like that - is not officially nor could ever be listed as ''lane, dirt and traditional'' it has been pre-empted by ''civilization'' and condones this cosmetic infringement but here and there the macadam has split open just a wedge and you see under all of this no-nonsense stuff a country lane, showing its wares, even though it has to don armor (but so did knights of old days) it's just armor and doesn't count for in the believers' eyes it is a lane and the flowers bloom the cows moo the butterflies dance the wind caresses the sky forms a partnership of color, the story must be told, the poem must wane
it begins to rain back here
on our Lane . . .