Where The Creek Bends Southward

We walk a reposed trail.
Aged oaks, young maples
Stand tall in pensive rest.

Come to one of many
Forks and veer left.
Cattails and wild grasses
Bend, dying in shades
Of brown, repressed by an
Overcast winter without end.

Here, where the trail
Births into an acred field,
Young legs tire from sloshing
Through mud, trampling
Upon dead brush.

The day tires, sighing in
Quickening darkness.
Grandpa drives us home
In his Buick, we speak
Of nothing aside from respective yawns.

I saw a farmer’s field today
And I remembered yesteryear.

Advertisements

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out / Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out / Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out / Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out / Change )

Connecting to %s