Friday, April 5, 2013

Passerby

The handle on the pasture gate
Is loosely chained against the wind
To keep the random wandering sheep
From eating bark and baring flesh
That someday might yet yield forth
The fruit of a sweeter communion shared
With the passersby below.
 
The gate is strung with silvered drops
Lenses that pendulously hang and droop
Waiting for their neighbors to bond
And trickle down the zinc metal rungs
And find their way so gravity bound
Freed at last from the slate blanketed sky
Where they once loosely did reside
Freed now to weep their way below
Into the pasture’s sodden soil
And puddle for a brief respite
Into the chevrons grooved and cut
By tractor wheels which the afternoon before
Flailed back and forth across the field
While taking down the hay and ferns
Once matted in their wild embrace
And layering out the fine chopped mulch
Already changing olive to brown
From sun tanned jade to faded taupe
Befriended only on their way
By rows of luminescent pearls
Necklaced upon their sweet decay
Whispering secrets of yesterday.

 
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