I

Picture this: The arrogant breeze

on the combine rolling through a wide field of canola.

Before dawn.

Before the light breaks over the mountaintops

and the farmer grinds his teeth,

lights a dart

and wraps his dry withered mouth around

the billowing fumes of toxic aggression

the snake oil prescription of a new morning.

Fighting tide against time;

Hope swinging in on the carcass of a new beginning,

and this is us.

Foul and fair,

idle against the breeze

and now turned against the wheels

of quiet contemplation.

 

 

Like the devil’s stare

screeching, into the midday air,

we look on beyond the hills on high

above and beyond the breathy wilderness.

We flayed the bark off of trees

carefully selected from the sizeable woods behind the yellow hills

and broke them down to build what we though

looked like our best impression of a home.

 

 

Age upon age,

tore and tilled the fields

and the woods

bent under the weight of the dying air.

Can he rebuild

the world he once made whole?

Tide and time

persist

always bringing with them

hope of a new sun rising

and the fields now grown tall

fit to be reaped.

 

 

But the light still fades

and pulls back the curtain of the stubborn hope.

An optimism once sturdy

as the wild prairie winds send the house

sideways; flying through the boundless badlands

and still sitting by my side.

Like a shadow

resting softly on the dirt.

And here we are,

still here

fading,

sinking into the barren soil.

 

I can’t believe we couldn’t make this work.

 

 

 

 

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