About her, I do not know
the rhetoric of routine
or with whom she held court
in her thirtininth year.
I could not tell her address
or date of birth.
I’ve only the thoughts
gathered from Lincoln, Illinois
when she found us lying on the lawn
of the court house.
I will remember Roxanne Rude
in the waxing of June, cornflower
blue eyes and a rash of reckless freckles
across her shoulders.
I will recall until eternity
that afternoon with the wind at our backs
when she rode with us a while.
The boys lagged behind telling jokes
and she exchanged with me in great detail
the complexities of her small town life.
Of the three of us, I belonged to her in those brief hours
as a daughter, and a pupil.
Then the highway bowed to silos, farmhouses and
finally Elkhart, population four-hundred;
and she left us on the dusty Main Street.
In parting, aside, she said to me,
keep these stories, as I can see you are the one
who will write them down. And remember
that freedom can never be lost,
so long as you realize that every road is a journey,
and this journey is Serendipity.
With that, she left.