A Poetry Tasting: Peach Stop

As I'm cruising around Napa Valley wine tasting today, please enjoy the second installment of our poetry series written by Kate Lindblom! This is a tale of her east coast road trip (where she and our friend Brandy stopped in DC to see me!).

Road Trip 2012: Tampa to Boston.
Summer.
America's east coast beckons!
But first,
a peach stop.

We've barely stepped over
the threshold
of the first state line
when we take an exit
seriously
that promises
Georgia peaches
pecan logs
peanuts
clean bathrooms.

Next to the feed store,
the goods sit on tables
under a green tent
with local people
manning the peach-colored bottles
of cider
and peach-colored jars
of jam
while a peach-colored kitten scampers away
on our approach.

Open plastic jars labeled “College”
sit here and there
between the Southern offerings,
all with a thin layer of coins
and a crumpled dollar or two
at the bottom.
Ziploc bags filled with water
hang under the eaves of the tent
each with a penny dropped inside
to keep the flies away
and the customers curious.

Business is good.
My friend goes inside the feed store,
which manner dictates
since we parked in front of it,
while I test the heft
of the nearest bottle of cider.

As I pay,
I notice a young raccoon in a cat trap
at the edges of the whole affair.
Another tourist points
to the black-eyed animal
who's surrounded
by scattered peanut shells.
“Oh, it's wild”
is the nearest boy's response
as he smoothes out the bills
in his hand.
I walk to the car,
and look back
at the captive animal
with its blank face
and resting paws
as it lolls in its cage.

My friend gets into the car as I do.
We both try to share our own experience
of the local color in the minute we were apart.

I talk about the raccoon.
She tells of the feed store smell
and a man who greeted her kindly
and asked,
“Where's Booger?”
A voice from the back answered,
“He's right there.”
She looked down to see a gloomy dog,
a boxer,
lying on the floor listless
as if in preparation for the heat.

We drive back onto the highway
and faster we accelerate,
the more satisfied we are
in our Georgia encounter
and with our first peach stop.

A Poetry Tasting: A New Series!

Hello dear readers! I want to introduce you to our first contributor and a new series on High Heeled Traveler called A Poetry Tasting. I've been wanting to add some poetic delights to the blog for a while but it's one style of story telling that escapes me. Luckily one of my best friends, Kate, is a poet and agreed to write some special rhymes just for us! Let me/us know what you think in the comments below.
So here you go, the first poem in our monthly series...

Ode to a Hotel Room
by Kate Lindblom

A hotel room is made up of three plain things:
security, simplicity, and sighs.
Peace sinks to the core
when we're behind a door
that to us has no ties.

First, security of the calmest kind,
is ready to greet each guest.
With plastered walls
and silent halls
A traveler can take a rest

from winds that gust and rains that pelt
to snow that crusts to ice.
Brass locks that click
and clocks that tick
soothe us through the night.

Simplicity comes in the form of things
like smooth ivory tiles and sheets
as blank and clean
as twilights unseen,
as cool as the mossy peat.

Soap that under a fingernail curls
and pillows stuffed with things
like slanted sunlight
and sounds of the night
a freshness to us brings.

And what of the sighs that from us arise
when we thump our bags on the floor?
They're the same ones heard
instead of a word
when the lamp shines gold no more.

Sheets of glass and cotton curtains
Keep us apart from the noise.
So let out your sighs
and close your eyes.
Let a hotel room bring you joy.