From the grey room
the door is open to the day;
the sunlight spreads like butter
over the daisy-drifted grass,
over the legs of girls,
hesitant as May colts,
flickering in warmth;
shine-shafts the javelin dying to the earth,
the discus arcing to its rest.
Around the dust-grey room
the whitened farm burns outward in the light,
its four deep eyes stretch forward to tomorrow;
chimneyed ears are cocked
to hear the shreds of torn-off laughter;
cool and shadowed now
the porch endures, agape and still; breathes.
Behind, the burnt-out barns sag to oblivion,
the woods sink deep in summer sleep.
Only the dying oak keeps faith, looks back,
lifting bare arms, pain-wracked, in silent supplication,
still,
over the last green rags of life-frail leaves,
the bubble-froth of lingering lips,
enduring its mortality.
The farmer died hard.
Beyond the grey room
is the torn-off laughter,
the sunlight spread like butter
over the daisy-drifted grass....
(May, 1983)
