I would like to live on that little farm just down the hill
And notice until I tire of it (though I never will),
How the whisper of the highway changes through the seasons

I would sit in the barn and hear the approximation of some promise yet to be made
As trucks and cars and big rigs slide sibilant across the day, and
I would let it be a symbol of the greater current of the world which absorbs all lament, like oil on sunslicked asphalt

I would like to continually ask myself, “What do I do now?” as I putter around the dirt but make no progress, really, the weight of a hammer or some other implement balanced between my fingers more for feeling than for freeing any nails or dirt or earth

I would survey the fence and the backbreaking work of digging postholes before thinking better of it
And notice instead how the conversation in my head finds its way always across the field like rain

What would I do without those storms and all that empty space mirroring the places inside my chest?
And what to do with all this moment stirring the green grass like kind but heedless wind, searching for the springtime?

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