An interrupted dream, of course,
without the constraint of time—
the near and distant, live and dead
working as one generation bent
to a joyous harvest fresh
with obstacles to overcome
on a common landscape. The old
barn that burned is still standing,
still harboring Black Widows
we work around, laughing about
all we know now—our syndicate,
our union of attitude tangled
with busy arms and legs
into an efficient dance
on the same ground. As it tries
to escape, I hold a pastel
rural scene without the feeling
of machinery or electric lights
like an open door to reenter,
someday, to be among the voices
of those before and yet to come.
drycrikjournal 