Standing on the side of an Indiana back road
I look in nine directions and count seven breezes
going by, the one that cools, the one that warms,
the one that passes without a sideways glance,
the one that carries the scent of the past,
the one that carries the scent of dry rub barbecue,
the one that stirs the red dust at my feet, the
one that makes the daylilies nod and bow and wave
in idle greeting and me at the side of the road
standing, waving back.