Driving in August

The single white dividing line beats past,

Not measuring blurred distance or rhythmic time,

But the spinning of wheels over asphalt.

Mississippi summers creep in through

Latched windows and locked doors,

Beneath warping floorboards smooth and

Marbled black with long words spoken

Over cornbread and sweet iced tea

Summer cannot be escaped.

The Delta cotton fields are as vast

As the downy blue baskets they gaze at,

And old as the Live Oaks standing sentinel between

Costal views and nodding waves.

Summer can only be lived.

Accepted without questioning,

Without numbers to speak of its extremes.

The single white dividing line beats past,

Measuring life, the breath of wind licking my face,

The heartbeat winding its way deeper into the soul.