Mutely standing in a field of
fallow stubble, bending on the loam,
one’s mind is a business of
musing the morning sun to rise.
Bold mice scurry through holes in boots,
tickling would-be toes of would-be feet
and climbing through knees of overalls
that, overall have seen brighter days.
Sparrows puff from red flannel seams--
brown-feathered breath calling to
starling hands that wish to rub pale straw
moths from hollow sockets that stare
the stars from the sky. One has hopes of scaring
someone--anyone--and listens without ears to hear
all that is not there and the one thing that is.
...puttin' the Po' in NaPoWriMo...
...with all due credit to Wallace Stevens...
...hopefully he's not rolling in his grave at this...