MAYPOLE

The dark hole in the barn

that once was leafy, fine-stemmed alfalfa

for six-months feeding, rides on a rain

as wildflowers get ahead of the green

making color, making seed—a spectacle

that will eclipse the hopes and dreams

that drew us to this tipping point in time.

Seems we’re always on the cusp of perfect

storms, praying for enough that we might

meld into the wealth of these steep slopes

we belong to, marvel at the cattle

and forget about the money and the market

for a moment as we and our old neighbors

hold invisible hands and hobble around

the maypole to appease our pagan genes.