She Drove

She drove like the color of her car.

The color of her car was shock red

with a tawny tinge to moderate

the flare. She sipped twenty-year tawny port 

in pretty and tiny glasses. She wore

glasses when she drove and when she drank

port. She rode me around the town. Her dark eyes 

precise with understanding she softened 

at night when she drank port. I watched 

and heard her cover the blacktop streets our streets

our home of rippling tree stems the hushed

miracle of what we passed. We passed 

oak and maple, the river dotted with

ducks and geese and slim poles of the fishermen.

She confided shadows. The shadows from 

the ripe trees we passed. I knew her in motion. 

In motion away from the hunkering down 

of the yards where silver leaves caressed 

the limbs that were their home. My home was motion 

with her. Wind shifted what we could see through 

the windshield. The dotted Swiss of the rain 

when rain came. She dropped me off after 

the afternoon. There were birds hopping 

on the young green lawn. One of our daylights 

was singsong. And sweet with motion, the motion 

of the tawn red car with horsepower 

and her intention.