August 11, 2011

The blue whistling through these trees is realer
than the voices of loved ones that sing in my mind.
The cat wrapped around my ankle with a broken hip
and Germanic meow is semi-real, like a fading dream.
This topsoil’s undertones are recycled and reused,
colorful folklore sun-dried to sweet nothings.

My own countryhome happening is a shot in the dark
when dawn arrives shaking sleep off a dusty noon.
This is my life, a curtain dancing in soft sunlight—

Outside fields grow slowly disheveled
while my back pulls up carrots to pay the light bill.
My bones creak like ceiling beams pushing back moon
and accumulated gravity from years of simple standing.

But I’ve settled nicely into the breezy motions of peace
that invite memories to fireside chats, so all is not lost.
I throw around humble phrases like pass the mandioca
and two hundred years of corruption, both which seem at home
coals ablaze meat sizzling inches from the muzzle of a hunting dog.

If not for the moon reminding me of other worlds,
I’d be tempted to use tools thicker than words
to hack at roots until abundance is edible,
digestible, free from the loneliness of being.

LOCATION: Formosa, Argentina – On a traditional farm with Gabriela and her uncle. Five hectares of carrots, lettuce, radish, and corn are the backdrop to our grilling meat. Almost full, the moon illuminates everything a hazy blue.

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