Brimmed hats, sweat-stained,
Moving among rows of
Golden green, thrusting tall
In growing dusk.
Small fingers on leaves,
Reaching to shrouded grain,
Like larger hands above,
Pressing, probing, testing, hoping.
A glance to sky
Of brilliant blue,
Fading into non-whiteness
Edged by heaven.
Imitating larger boot,
Smaller kicks
At powdered dirt,
Swirling dryness into dust.
Gabled house, broad porch,
Resting on flowered hillside,
Built of generations
And weathered pine.
Aproned, watching, wrapped
In barn dance memories;
Hands on growing life,
Sleeping child within.
Moving among rows of
Golden green, thrusting tall
In growing dusk.
Small fingers on leaves,
Reaching to shrouded grain,
Like larger hands above,
Pressing, probing, testing, hoping.
A glance to sky
Of brilliant blue,
Fading into non-whiteness
Edged by heaven.
Imitating larger boot,
Smaller kicks
At powdered dirt,
Swirling dryness into dust.
Gabled house, broad porch,
Resting on flowered hillside,
Built of generations
And weathered pine.
Aproned, watching, wrapped
In barn dance memories;
Hands on growing life,
Sleeping child within.
Photo 2009 by Monsanto; Common Share file on Flickr
2 comments:
This...
Imitating larger boot,
Smaller kicks
At powdered dirt,
Swirling dryness into dust.
very nice.
Re: your comment on Seedlings. Glynn, I think you've found another side of your poetic self! The humor lifts me, fills me. I'm laughing.
I love the poem you left. Does the fun never end? Yes, never.
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