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.

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in: Logo

You are commenting using your account. Log Out /  Change )

Google photo

You are commenting using your Google account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s

This site uses Akismet to reduce spam. Learn how your comment data is processed.