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Tuesday, March 29, 2022

Farm Sonnet

The barn roof sags exist fond of an of long ago mare’s back.

The field, overgrown, parts of it a marsh

Where the pond spills over. No hay or sacks

Of cereal are stacked for the cold. In the harsh

Winters of my youth, Mama, accompanied by an axe,

Trudged tirelessly every one day into and not here of deep snow,

Balanced on the precipitous bank, swung down to crack

The ice so horses could drink. With every one blow

I feared she would fall, nevertheless she never slipped.

Now Mama’s bent with every one other accompanied by withered, vacant gray

Eyes fixed on something I can’t see. I dip

My head when she calls me

The hour dated we have’s still excessively short to master

Love, with every one other accompanied by then, the empty that comes after.

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