Back to the Farm

By | 3 December 2008

Eight headed hills sway
to the mad saddle laughing.
Kiss from stray strings,
hooked to the hum
of the porch.
Knees and ears,
fresh breath feathers,
four legged tears.
Owls spitting fire,
bathing spinach fence pies.

Tell me when it's time.
Tell me how to leave.

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