Apr/May 2001 • Poetry
After the Plow
Furrows running side by side, veins of earth to moon. Dust dancing on echoes, dry coughs, wordless prayers that crumble like clay. A farmers' chipped white home sits like an arrowhead after plowing, bright, shattered here and there.
Furrows running side by side, veins of earth to moon.
Dust dancing on echoes, dry coughs, wordless prayers
that crumble like clay. A farmers' chipped white home
sits like an arrowhead after plowing, bright, shattered here and there.
