(rewrite of Dallas poem)
The Harvest is here
Though it is only August
my hands brushing flickering grain tips as I say goodbye.
I hear the calling bell ring
the last thing, being removed.
Walking through history
my own gold dust clinging
I left, feeling
the sense of life vanishing.
The farm was sold,
and I raked up memories
to burn my child-life in a barrel.
The tractor will rust,
be removed as platted. Engineered, well plotted lawns, defined by concrete curbs,
other planned things,
will replace forever
of my growing land.
When you need it
but don't want it
it stays to remind.
When you want it,
but cant keep it,
it leaves you behind.
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