Sunday, November 16, 2008

The Farmer

Tonight the moon waxes yellow -
Over bent barbs of wheat shafts
Fields appear a little softer
As the last cricket fades by the creek.

The lone farmer in silhouette
Walks towards the familiar barn
It’s eaves and vanes casting unfamiliar
Shadows of slanted fences.

His thick boots crunch
The dying leaves along the path.
From deep within the horse begins to
Stamp and blow its nostrils flaring

Steam rises in clouds. Yellow moon
Obscured in haze, waxes home
A little softer even though the last light
Has long gone out. Oh, to hear her laugh;

The way she used to.

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