All You See Is Grass: A Poem



All You See Is Grass


The discovery, of course,

never finished:

the milkweed, the current, the glint

of red in grass

when light lengthens

over hillsides

and then, with a shudder,

goes out.


Here, the birdsong, There the bones—

The plow with all the rest of the rust.


Old hands finger threads

of memories

buried somewhere

in the grass:

This dugout, That homestead,

But all you see

is grass.



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