When I think of the farm
it’s the stone bridge and country
road curving by the low barn.
It’s Tony’s tomatoes, white peacocks.
When I think of the farm, I see pine
trees, green pastures, the
bramble roses by the creek
sheep standing in the field.
When I think of the farm
I watch women spinning wool
the whir of wheels descant to
soft voices and gentle laughter.
When I think of the farm, I see
Airedales, Romney sheep,
a rabbit and Rhode Island Reds,
a well-fed Peaceable Kingdom.
I do not think of the ground
we walked last night when
one of their flock went missing
fearing death had stalked a lamb.
When I think of the farm
I don’t see Anthony striding the fields
Julie peering into corner and cranny
in tense, sweaty anxiety.
Death’s but a hair’s breadth
away each day. It makes
sweet our brief walk through time
I don’t think of that.
Interesting, how you moved from light to dark, yet the ending makes everything seem reasonable, somehow. I really like this!
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Thank you!
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Your poems are so real. You’ve led such an interesting life. I admire your poetry.
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Love you. Thank you/
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