I till no field and herd no stock
But sit sedate in shade and cooled air
As sciatica flares up and subsides
I am no son of farming folk
Scarce recalling grandparents who grew
Amid grain and grit and gristle
Never amid the corn-rows or a hundred head of cattle
I do not suffice to such food-making
But my pen still tends thence often
Subscribe to:
Post Comments (Atom)
No comments:
Post a Comment