Kansas, KS
Dru Parrish
All the arums of October spaced over
The cropping fields drawn and loved behold all others.
The land here runs in directions northwest,
Too far from the modicums of the seasons.
Rubbing callus over blister at the work done.
Trace over the thorn bushes and the crops all silence I feel.
At this moment none of it seems real to the touch.
How aged in the long tired of the day from the morning.
The moment of innocence whips whiskers I have long forgotten to a beard.
In every evening the soft light of the west touches
The hidden colors of the atmosphere and cloud nine
Becoming the mainstay over this slumbering field work.
With night the punctual wonder of forgiveness.
Rocking chair porches, to theater of the stridulation
All wonder and sleep, to know is to dream.
All is lost until the hint murmur of the sun peak.
Conveying all too immediate that rest breeds no yield.
From where we are now the world curves in the scape.
There remains only the day, the cultivating, and the hands that bend the two.
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