As I write this message, I am sitting at one of my favorite truckstops in America, the Bosselman's in Grand Island, Nebraska, quite a ways from Fairfield, Maine where I last posted a message. I started driving again the morning after Thanksgiving, after spending a lonely day alone, mostly feeling sorry for myself, and here I sit, twenty-two hundred miles later, waiting on a load sending me home.
Maine was beautiful, perhaps my new favorite state, as last week was my first visit there. I was especially struck by the beauty of her lakes as I drove down a winding, two-lane road toward my destination Friday. The poem I wrote follows.


THE LAKES OF MAINE

The Lakes of Maine sparkle
in the early morning light.
Floating in a sea of mist,
rising 'neath the splendor
of mountains' majestic heights.

The Lakes of Maine sparkle
reflecting nature's mural
of snow-covered peeks
shadowing peaceful valleys
shrouded in morning fog.

The Lakes of Maine sparkle
soaking up the clear, pure air.
Crystal clean water,
whose depths have no end,
created by the hand of God.