2.17

dry cracked deep frozen fields

wait for snow that may never

come to save them

at least not in time

I wait in my hotel room to watch

my son sing a song of sixpence

while the crows flee the fields

for warmer clime’s and mothers

mourn the distance.

it is a hard world where crunch

dried clots of earth can take

a farmer to weeping, and grace

appears oddly without asking.

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