612August
Heavy at night and moist as the morrow
Times carousel stops only once for dreaming
And lays its weight on summers days
Hung from rusted nails on backs of barns
Gray white with lapped sides
Drips sultry woe as rows of tobacco wait
For southern hands chapped with anticipation
Soup sits driftless in bowls of loblolly pines
Crows cry from distant fields as if lost
Watched only by an early crescent moon
Peering low from a western sky
Lifted by September winds of change
As if they were coming
Cultural thunder storm going on inside over here - liking the finer things in dining, shows and art but still at home trapping muskrats... equal parts of left brain and right - keeping it simple
Shit Happens - Misery is optional Hunting, Fishing, Gardening, Fine art, History, Binge reading, Writing poetry