“Thirty-Five Miles Per Hour”
The winter gone; bluebonnets peep their heads
among a broken fence-line, near a sign.
This ground now hallowed, they will bloom instead
in wild confusion for a heart that’s blind.
For those who do not see the need for pause;
for those who do not heed the gift of life.
The “pedal to the medal” seems a clause;
a saying they would live by as their right.
Below the bonnets grieve the innocent;
those wide-eyed wonders on their way to school.
They had so brief a moment to confront
the jagged bumper of the speeding fool.
So, spring is here; bluebonnets lift their heads:
a heaven-haloed blue for those now dead.
