The Farm: ‘do yourself a favor and pack your bags; buy a ticket and get on the train’ – tyorke

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.


1 Comment

  1. Pingback: To Cherish What’s Old | saunterings

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