The acrid smell of battle
in the disturbed ground:
Turkey Mullein vs. Vinegarweed
claiming more territory
to choke out grasses—
that knee-high cling and tell
where you’ve been
and your approach to life.
After a good wet spring,
I smell my father here,
twenty-five years
after his departure
and remember
his lace-up Chippawas
busting clods behind a plow.
drycrikjournal 