Sunday, November 13, 2011

poem a today

OF THE FARM

Clouds ambling in the sky above my father,
whose back, dark with sweat, hovers over
the field like a period, far from the road where
my mother and I, kicking up slow, lazy dust
clouds of our own, drive back from church.

The sun on my face is a baptism, the mint melting
to nothing in my mouth, a communion.
The mechanical cacophony of the riding mower,
only a hum in the distance: some hymn
whose words have been long forgotten.

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