there are new silhouettes in
this farm field at night now
and I hope that the shapes of
digits on this farmhouse clock
face tell of times the old
storms rolled through ‐ when
lightning lashed out at the
propped up pole beans – back
when the wolf tree over the
Subscribe to Weelunk
spring was just a tulip poplar
pup ‐ mist fell on the Wetzel
bottom ‐ marched through like
musket smoke ‐ long rifles
crack closer than thunder
calling the boys with puffs of
black powder out to cringe at
the coming Osage ‐ hard as
orange wood bent into long
bows and strong as sinew
strings ‐ quiet dark now
crept up like coming rain
