8. a shabby poem about hay

it was the smell of burning hay that
awoke and arose you
to the attic window.
you looked out
in the dark night
far across the creek and fields,
and you saw her.

she had made a straw pyre of your love.
the grain that grew tall in the wild summers,
before it was cut, dried and stored in the barn loft
for family children and napping on hot days.
the grain that you first laid her down on.
it was dry and so dead,
and she was soft and so alive,
but that was years ago.


it was the smell of burning hay in her dreams that
awoke and arose her.
she felt dry and so dead.
and as she burned it, the ashes danced up into the sky,
soft and alive yet again.