I Like to Write Stuff
there is a prairie song
whispering a symphony
under the blackness
of spring
it is an untouchable
undercurrent of earths life
beckoning its buried
lusts
it’s waves writhing
against the hips of fresh soil
and dressing the argyle
of youth
it’s where barren and
feminine furrows lie
tilled and open
in their wait
for crisp thunder
and chilled rain
~yearn, grow, ache...
41-45, F