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.