Friday, July 02, 2021

The Bamboo Hut, Number 2, 2021


crab-apple wine
the dance floor dad built
in the orchard

the scent of hay
wafts over our pasture . . .
we breathe deeply

wheat gum
our laugh lines etched
with dust

a slice of moon
dangles from the auger . . .
rusty combine

barren fields
the scattered bones
of our farm

the jangle
of a tin roof leaving home . . .
desolate prairie 

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