Hay Men

can a war zone hate in the autumn? better asked in the spring life takes on more fecund roles robins bouncing on the sod spring peepers drowning out my dreams and symphonies of war germinating in sterile soil of hatreds and the vibrant world furrows, like lines in sand, lie fallow in droughts of compassion irrigated by greed and ideal the state, a negligent farmer the cleric, a dark eyed plowman and we the silent few hang saddened twisting in a drier wind stuffed full of straw and tatters fowling-pieces staked to iron crosses as crows with crimson eyes flay the parchment of our skins...