The Old Farmer Rests Warm In His Snug House

The Old Farmer Rests Warm In His Snug House Within green grass in fields in Minnesota an early Fall, a flaming sword to swing no horses galloping in Dakota yes, that damn lying woman lost her ring. a rotten world dying flecked with you your broken left wrist eating its sweet pain winter dares to swing whilst snowing its glue and life's splitting heartache rides its black train. green glows and races the old crying clock its dying spirit cursing winter's breath angry sailors pray their ships finds the dock for vehement sea has gifted cold death. Within green grass a wet trembling mouse. The old farmer rests warm in his snug house. [B]Robert J. Lindley, Sonnet October 13th 1972[/B]