Sweetland

rolling, the combine harvester of a tractor
along the thick golden bristles of her field

below brewing skies, churning
soundless over the harvest

something of the silent beating of the machine against the grain,
like a steady drum,
lulls the clouds
hope appealing to distress
hope appealing to distress

when things uttered cause things of matter to hummm
to hummm
like woolen mallets
animating the bars of a marimba

four woody quarter notes of the lower bars
a woody, mellow…

g    o    o    d

she remembered as she received [them]:

compassionate words.

 

 

 

Copyright © 2018 A.M. Wilsonne

 

 

 

 

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