Sunday, September 13, 2009

Perspective In Wheat Fields

Our home stands delicate and loved
weathered boards, splintered faces
a skeleton
coal grey skin, trembling fingers
the horses here only shiver now

our home breathes dusty air
the smell of hay and cool soil

on the road is Dog
my friend
he's getting on in years

the fence that runs our meadow hunches low now
sore backed, ragged
the wind and rain have beaten it down

so long now

and all this swims in the snowglobe in my mind while I think
only seventy generations we've come
seventy lives of seventy years

the trembling farmhouse doesn't seem so old anymore

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