[lit-ideas] SUNDAY POEM

  • From: "Mike Geary" <atlas@xxxxxxxxxxxxx>
  • To: <lit-ideas@xxxxxxxxxxxxx>
  • Date: Sun, 18 Mar 2007 22:00:51 -0500

THE SCENT OF DAIRY AIR

Too late to close the door,
father doesn't bother anymore,
mother lets the dust stay where it lay, 
while he stands out there 
in the dust filled air
standing on a hill
as bent and twisted as a wind-shaped tree,
"See, he says, see
what all our caring yields.
Dust devils,
ghost marauders,
raiding the fields."

Forces set in motion
by explosions in the sun,
these things can't be undone,
not by work nor by prayer,
The air --
             what does it care?




Mike Geary
Memphis

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