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.