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.