The exhausted land,
tart with drought
and rough with age,
attempts only a fleeting resistance.
Stomp the spade,
hoist the rubble,
and unload the refuse
until my hands dream of work;
my nights deny me rest.
I strive to cull my wife’s audible sighs,
to crop her barren assurances.
I am not some new root
that has yet to traverse the seasons;
for I’ve borne them as the land:
One by slowly one.
The breadth of my reign
is but an insignificant plot:
the measure of one hand to the other,
and I must rekindle this calloused will
until I die,
only to fall back to the same tired earth.
No comments:
Post a Comment