As we drift west 'neath cotton wisps and buttes,
Cerulean and pearly white combine
To mock at spinach-green and call it mute,
And point it to the highway's yellow line.
Gold-sharp, gold-creamy, smooth and widely bold,
No hum-drum but a humming, drumming thing,
The line holds all things in, from near to old;
Trapped not in rooms, left for the sky to sing
About and know, the yellow line runs true.
The black-eyed Susans, flattened long afraid
By charcoal asphalt, bled their hues anew
Into this line the painter thought he made.
Yes, thus the yellow line appears to me;
I'm seeing not a silent boundary
But beauty 'tis, where one must look to see.