pastoral

the grass has bowed its head, bent with regret
and a broken neck, the memory of trees,
and the empty promise of spring in the long hollow of winter.

men and steal, a low frequency prayer of wheels turning away

clouds skid to a stop clogging the sky
with their heaviness, the weight of their words will choke back the dust

there is romance with dirt, a longing for a
place that was, or what it might become




.