In our Image
They have barren and bounty in winter;
warm, rough hides of their milk cows,
leafless maples and empty oak trees,
grass matted down with morning frost,
and the sound of thunder from a plane
as it shears the fleece from the clouds.
The inner workings of all things are simple
until we tinker with them to make them better;
we try to grow wings and fly from the family farm
where the dilapidated trailers lay like dying caterpillars
and the depleted silos stand less than half empty.
A bale of hay only takes them so far
and the troubled wind, singed in the jet engine,
calls for Euros to bring storms and rain down
to punish all of us still standing firmly on the ground.
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