Poem: Farm

Farm

A farm overgrown with kudzu and
morning glories is the summary
of my mistakes, the picture of my
thinning hair woven together with
strands of decay.  Longleaf pines
become old people peeping through
clusters of green needles, waiting
for a world they cannot see. 
Dusk releases a fragrance
across the land, among the hushed
cats in the garden and the rows
of salads.  A neighbor’s lazy eyes
watch me sleep.  When all the lights
are gone and my mind dims and
the scent of sawdust blows in
through the open window the next
morning I know to watch the pasture
as if it were myself moving in the
silence that is the light of the world. 
I watch the broom sedge sway
in the distance.  No other hand
chastens me but the one I feel
in the wind driving off the last bit
of heat, curling the grass in baby strokes.
The unspoken urge within me waits
for me to gaze at the sky and forget
why I am gazing.  I stoke the warmth
in my body, which speaks in a tongue
I have not known since childhood,
telling me all I remember.