The Farm

He opened day with a broom

singing a song older that he,

stolen from deep caverns

of courage, stocked in the barn for free.

He tends the sheep,

bales the hay,

opens the yawning night

with a sigh of day,

shaking loose the cacophonous rhymes of the mind

with the simple tasks of being.

© Andrea Mathews, 2016

 

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