The Rural Place is Complete
The milk-white cow is grazing on a cloud,
While the barn hangs upside down, a rusty, quiet shroud.
The farmer’s boots are filled with singing wheat,
And the tractors drive themselves down the street,
On roads of melting butter, past the dreaming oak,
Where the spiders weave their webs out of chimney smoke.
The rooster crows a melody that tastes like rain,
And the wind-chimes play upon the nerves of pain.
The fence posts walk in circles, wearing hats of pine,
And the pumpkin patch is drinking ruby wine.
At noon, the sun is a bicycle without any wheels,
Spinning over the abundant, breathing fields.
A creek flows backward to a sapphire sky,
Where the catfish fly and the eagles lie,
Watching the scarecrow tell a story to the crow,
While the barn-cat naps where the mushrooms grow.
In the cellar, time is a jar of amber light,
And then in the yard, the day is sleeping with the night.
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