The Farm

there, along the old oak grove
where the soy bean meets with the tree line,
the fractal limbs rise up and tear
against the old blue-black sea-sky,
naked and aching for spring
or anything green:
and freed of all their shame –
there, for a whole world to see,
but they’ll grow cold, all the same,
and funny that it is, that old oak copse,
when the rest of the world would throw on a coat,
she’ll shed every leaf to the bare-bone soul,
to expose Turkey Creek and the land there below.