Earth Speaks

I watch the needle creep
to 75 in the 55 zone,
look for red flashing lights
in the rear view while miles
of green stream past. When you face
the sun to warm us, I squint
fumble with the visor, fish
inside my purse for shades.

I don’t see which blue
you have painted the sky
or the shape and depth
of the clouds drifting above.
You want to tell me something,
but I can’t hear, until the rain forces me
to monitor the speed of the wiper blades,
take the car out of warp drive.