I drive the 281 west
to Texas Hill Country,
find the ranch
on the hidden banks
of the Pedernales,
summer’s sunscald
offering a rare glimpse
of the old man caught
with his hair grown long
and unkempt.
He sprawled in a field
of purple wildflowers,
at play with his grandkids.
He wore a peaceful smile
on his weathered face
as if content, the iron
yoke of the World’s
Most Powerful Man
lifted from him forever,
the White House years
now fading in the indian
paintbrush and bluebonnets.
|