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.


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