What the Farmland Wind Shall Bring
In the dark
By candle
At my kitchen table
I begin to sign the monthly checks.
Soon the sun will rise
A flood lifting an orchard light
Of cherries and white clouds
Dappled blossoms
From the bottom of my feet
To just below my eyes
I peak above the neighbor’s horizon
The farm fields of knee-high spring wheat
Is combed by a young wind
Shredding the tips
Of the green swells
To silver-backed dollar bills
Undulating across the velvet hills
The wind reaches our old house
Jiggles the door
Loosens its hinges
Memories
Come in
Inquires of me
Directions to the big city
A pair of auburn fawns nuzzle at the bird feeder
Spinning it like a compass
An accomplice
I point to
A farmer moves to his mustard yellow field
With a trailing tractor tornado
Carves the dry Earth with fury
Seeks his fortune like a corporation
Out the backdoor
Black and spinning
Pages flapping from my bookshelf
Our house is left of children
Breathing
Creaking
Like the single White Pine
Next door
In the Sunfield Cemetery
Roaring
To the unsettled horses
As it tears
From the planet
To the smoldering wick
Of the setting sun.
Copyright © Robert Trezise Jr. | Year Posted 2020
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