We move towards fall, the sun yet high and blistering—
like cattle shade to shade, if we move at all—a time
to ruminate and write, to irrigate the roots in half-light,
and measure the blush of fruit surging on the vine.
The good and evil of this world have no perfect borders,
no kings or queens on this clod to rule the weeds and pests,
to banish the sycophants, all come to celebrate the harvest.
And for a moment in the mind, a gardener can become a god
to plot his Eden, and find pleasure in his small Genesis
that cooks beneath the sun in good earth and water.
This is the wellspring of all men’s dreams that now
they have forsaken, the sun yet high and blistering.
drycrikjournal 