End of Field
That same lonesome pulls
©1999 Barry Blackhawk
my chest outward
and gains weight and pain.
Feel my feet itching some
It seems duty to break
a crusty clod of gumbo
And see that small trickle
creek going by quiet.
A maple tree and brethren flank
the old place, heaves and bumps and
busted down limbs, must of age
lurks secrets and whispers of brown, grey
black and murmur.
Recall of arm gesture, lip pointing
and finger talk chatter, people talk
sage talk, corn talk, laugh with all
wrinkles and black point seers,
Threading and sewing and spitting old Juice
of Holy weed.
House shadow of think past looms
at the heart of the end of this field,
A huge urge to teeter feebly at a corner
face up to the same star and weep.