Farmlife

If I were a farmer now I would name my hoe Samson to move the dirt near my cow that moos the meadow for nose discharges worthy of respect, some lows with lots of excesses pouring like rain flattery cannot know so thin and bare when we wag our tails and say Nature’s cruel enough to please any milker named Grace or Paul or Brown. May pings of milk stream into the bucket between knees. The cow chews her cud with contentment of a Christian without honor or the noise from the garden my mother tends. Discretion is the council of remembrance. Sometimes a tower is by itself a watch.

If needs be, grant mercy, then climb to the top, a mile from the dirt.