Poetry for thought - Home

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by Bruce Weigl

I didn't know I was grateful

             for such late-autumn

                           bent-up cornfields

yellow in the after-harvest

                sun before the

                           cold plow turns it all over

 into never.

          I didn't know

                          I would enter this music

 that translates the world

                back into dirt fields

                           that have always called to me

 as if I were a thing

                come from the dirt,

                            like a tuber, 

 or like a needful boy. End

                 Lonely days, I believe. End the exiled

                                   and unraveling strangeness.

Image: Flickr - Alternative Heat