RAMON PRESSON: Is it too late for write-in votes?

RAMON PRESSON: Is it too late for write-in votes?

Occasionally I like to take another poet’s idea, including sometimes the first and/or last line, and change the poem considerably, improving it…as a professional courtesy to the original author, although to date I cannot recall any of them thanking me.

In this case I’m borrowing just the last two lines from Leath Tonio’s poem, “Write-Ins for President” and changing everything else. Leath, you’re welcome.

Is It Too Late for Write-In Votes?

After an ugly campaign that lasted for an eternity, the first two months in office are going quickly… downhill like a semi-truck that’s lost its brakes on a steep grade mountain road.

I’m too weary to discern between leaked info, fake news, and alternative facts. I have trust issues now — like a man who bites into a chocolate chip cookie only to discover that it is gluten-free oatmeal raisin.

So I’m calling for a do-over election with more room for write-ins of things trustworthy and pure.

I elect the dawn’s deer grazing at the edge of a Franklin pasture.

I elect the inhaling and exhaling of the surf at low tide.

I elect a slice of my wife’s perfect key lime pie with a single lit birthday candle.

I elect the sounds of children playing in a limited-edition Tennessee snow.

I elect the steaming cup of coffee before the sun comes up and morning hits its stride.

I elect the birds at dusk crowding the lobbies of favored trees at check-in.

I elect the brief warm flood in the chest that accompanies the first sip of good wine.

I elect the smell of fresh cut lumber and its running mate, new leather.

I elect the Welcome To North Carolina highway sign that reminds me where I was born and which land raised me.

I elect the dogwood tree in my backyard that blooms on cue at Easter.

I elect the daring sparrow at an outdoor café that snatches a muffin crumb that fell from my plate.

I elect the honeysuckle along a backroad when the fragrance hitches a ride on the breeze.

I elect the marching band in a small town parade.

I elect the mornings in Evergreen, Colorado where Mount Everest greeted me in the distance and tipped his snowcap.

I elect the vows that a new book and reader make to each other before getting undressed.

I elect that which cannot be written in on a ballot, that which will guide us forward, ever forward, regardless of who lives in some white house.

Ramon Presson, PhD, is a licensed marriage and family therapist in Franklin (www.ramonpressontherapy.com) and the author of several books. Reach him at ramonpresson@gmail.com.

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