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farming words

Agricultural words I was writing words strung together trying to stack them together and make a little story not a poem that I don´t care to write when the electricity took a break. Not that I minded living inland this happens. I had a killer ending and wouldn´t let the flame of inspiration die out. Five hours later, the light came on; I sat too long in the darkness, the killer ending forgotten. As I said, I´m not a poet, a worker in the field of words sowing and weeding, hoping for a good crop. A farm-hand of words, I do my job and even unpaid but proud of my cabbage and potatoes. No, I have no orchids and roses. Roll a cigarette, lit it and dreamily think of tomorrow sitting on a stone fence built by heroes.

Copyright © | Year Posted 2021

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