Weathered

A poem for you today, titled "Weathered." I wrote it in 2008, originally one of those writing exercises where you choose five words at random (books make it easy) and write something that includes all of them. Anyway, enjoy. Photos to come, maybe even later tonight.

Maybe it'll rain
She says, mantra
For everyday,
And he'll pull tight his lips
Leave her with hopes
And take up the fields again.
The soil dusts like powdered snow
Petals curl into ashy nips;
He stands upon the crest of the hill
The goat watching from the sod-roof,
Begrudging the man
With his bell-collar, filling his mouth,
Feeding on rooted hay.
Maybe it'll rain--
Such nonsense, a muddle of
Desperate sounds,
And the man kicks a potato plant
Spits
The soil dusts like powdered snow.
Even in drought
His farm is ever-busy
And timber makes the ground quake his
Axe dull,
Blood feeds not the grain
And the cows moan in their pasture, ever waiting
Like his wife,
Eyes tempting the clouds to
Turn and the mountain to
Boom with thunder.
Maybe it'll rain,
Wage peace with his wits once again
Or maybe dry leaves
Would do for lettuce.