Seems to come slower these days
As if it felt unneeded or, perhaps,
Unwanted. Like awakening at night
By the moment of day that stuck
Feeling like a burr between toes.
When I want a pink sky to swallow
Me like the silos and red barns and
Holsteins’ hooves digging browned
Grass. Soon it will be green again,
I want to promise, without any clue
Or evidence. Call the rolling hills
Hope, guess the manure will feed
Back to the soil what burns olfactor
Now. I want to promise like a child
Needs, that the lines will end on
time. The stillness, a quiet the same
Child gawks looking past his panes
At the scene of a life yet to become.
Now it’s become. I can almost taste
The grill marks on marinated flesh.