Monday, March 26, 2012

Farms- First Draft


Seems ....
I'm always leaving....
farms.....
(track of land)
house,
(fossilized limestone and white clapboard)
green ranch frosted with a cedar deck,
barn,
( weathered wood top, set on stone, , metal roofs on Douglas fir, lodge pole pine.)
silos,
( death in fermented silage, forbidden to a child's foot...
the black kitten, crying death on wood islands we threw her way...)
told of quick sand silage death.
crops,
(Winter wheat, green- topped in frozen Februaries,
golden June summer wheat plays
with death in milo, tangled in sand burrs
our bodies found as we burrowed for warmth,
feeding Herefords in hibernating buffalo grass pastures.
buffalo wallows give way to Chisholm trail ruts and wild cedar Christmas trees.
Woodland Resource for wintering black tail deer, China town flumes, sugar pines and Christ tree firs. Pussy willows hidden in Manzanita brush, elderberry and sage.)



II.

From Sylvan Grove to Abilene.
From Kansas to Oregon.
From Sterling Creek to Medford.
From Denver to Nebraska.

I've been planted- sown-
on so many farms....
uprooted to grow again.
When life is finally yanked,
like foxtails in an asparagus bed,
I'll wake
in my Savior's arms.

III.
Here.

Kansas loam, rich
in composted prairie roots,
Nebraska lowlands- sand from ancient seas...
Water drains southward...
Oregon volcanic clay...
tree roots pierce the mountains -
river valleys, top soil heavy.

Here:

Adiophera:
altar, liturgy, crosses....

a little yank
a little death
wheels crank West,
leaving bits,
behind,
clumps cling to spokes,
fall discarded,
littering the trail.

I sometimes sneak
earthy backward peeks
to see if I should retrieve,
hold,
abandon?
What will survive the Continental Divide?

IV.

It's the Earthly Divide
I strain to meet...
understand.
To the East drains my life through sandy soil.
To the West
death percolates
in pyroclastic soil.



It's embedded in my fingernails....
ground into my skin....
foot dust fro lowland hills that meets the riverbeds.
I drown myself daily,
River wise in my Savior.

V.
I rise past mountain highs
and earthly atmosphere,
dead in dirt/earth farms.

I know Heaven is where I leave the farm behind...
I'll cease behind tractor plows, cutting combines,
and chainsaw blades chewing through cambium rings....

Eyes closed in death-
I'll be glad to leave the farm behind-
My eyes will open in my Savior....

No comments:

Post a Comment