There's an old farmer's tale called
"The Cheatgrass and the Scythe,"
where we give gratitude to
our pendulum hands
Every spring,
the cheatgrass creeps near
like a thief that steals,
crop quality and yield
All afternoon the farmer scythes,
green crooked wands
till they lean upon death
Acre after acre,
scything becomes
methodical
then again, so does grieving
Consider the farmer's heart,
palsied by grief
as the color of misery
animates in his cheeks
and in his eyes, going the way
of the oak,
where they found
his beloved,
hung by a garden hose.
Each dawn he mumbles
the old farmer's tale,
while his heart must carve
through each of its agonies
over and over, until it feels.
You bring up a good point Ken. The latest piece, "Beyond the Canvas" has actually already been published and the copyright has reverted back to me. I just wanted to post it to see what comments I get. It always amazes me to see what folks say. As far as the other poems, I have revised them already, and will not post those until much later.