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Madrigal
Her feet knows the path
Seeing amongst stones
Curled, the grass wet swathe
And stars dry as bones
Into night she walks
Head laden, heart spilled
Her prices for stalks
Less than she is billed
For mulch and tilling
And the clouds too dry
Cost her more spending
The land makes her sigh
But the cycle keeps
In the wind she talks
And murmur-less sleeps
The toad neath the balks
The fog unwinds day
A barren tree shed
Leaves where children play
The sun on their head.
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