Fall is better for color, texture and poetry. I can see relaxation ahead. We drove out late yesterday, to the town pronounced why-CONE-ee-ah in these parts.
The way to Waconia with hills
rolling 'long side to sunset sky
gray-pink and white with azure blue.
Gold never looked so true and rich and live.
This trip on highway 5.
Hills rolling with late harvest
grain and greens
a tree of early autumn mottled patches standard in its show.
Mute-colored texture metered by the bend.
Texture-heavy sections folding
in this evening approach.
More a dream of classic
presence than the century stone
to silo base and west wall supports
the boards of gray and many colored coats
most gone. Seems red.
And loft door hinges raked in happy angle.
Orange rust-iron turned to German chocolate brown
the year granddad was ten-years-old.
It has a cupola.
Once a vein long gone
with weather tracking antique hunters.
And a deer could cross the road.
Oh, highway 5.
The way to Waconia with rolling hills.
Did you see the burgundy of oaks,
September reds and graying barn?
It has a cupola and weather vein of dreams.
I saw it once on the way.