Written by: David Smalling

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.