Sunrise At the Twilight Ranch
He sleeps late
because the milk cows have dried up
and the bulls long slaughtered.
There are no cowboys in the bunk house
just a couple of old chickens
pecking the dirt floor,
they produce, at most, one real egg a week
the rest are malformed by spilled ink.
However in the leaky cabin
the big brown teapot
is stuffed with scrapes of poetry
waiting to be led out into the dusty fields,
where the sun only rises and sets.
with no daylight in between.
As he does every day,
he seeks a hollow in his landscape
to bury words that should never see the light.
He knows that, over time, if left to themselves,
they will turn into little black spiders
that will spin their webs
between sunset and sunrise
creating a gaping gossamer breach
that will only lead to more fresh chinks
in the wormwood soul
of his tumbledown barn.
Copyright © Eric Ashford | Year Posted 2020
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