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by Elayne Clift What is it about a landscape that makes it hard to look away? How does the bluest of blue skies hold our attention so long? Why do variations of green seem so important, and moving? What about white cotton balls of cloud, or a slim white fence, Makes them matter so that we become obsessed with looking? Why is it sad that the field is wild, random, overgrown, and why Do distant mountains beg to be scaled so stories can be told? It's a truck. An old green abandoned truck that cries out, "There's a story here. Yes, indeed, a story!" But who can tell it? Who can say what happened, When the people have all gone. Aha! The blank page, as Annie Dillard said. The blank page will tell the tale. All it needs Is a poet, a wordsmith with imagination and a pen To fill that truck, and watch as the people walk away.
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