Poetry for thought - Home

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

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