My North Carolina farm was a life then.
Everything creek-easy and slow.
I’d listen on it
the buzz of a natural day
before the autos cranked up
for their egg deliveries
and in town concerts
The life simple, passed; memories locked
a quilt patchwork:
crinoline
corn muffins
sugar cookies
stick fishing rods
the deer along the river walking
on marble pebbles.
Our zoolike kitchen,
walls of cracked wallpaper:
the insides of the strawberries
appearing to fall out.
Time is all space now
the stillness not enough.
Today, the farm is a skeleton
the cows having long ago pastured
their bones away on sunny hills
and growing grass.
The asphalt is a grazing wasteland
for the hearsted cars
that pile up like smashed, recyclable cans.
I run by
flying kites
like many colored balloons
hoping to discover
electricity.