In a far field
one finds the hay stacked
neatly into ricks there
is
no mystery here accept
fix-up all furnishings fallen
into disrepair only red-winged
blackbirds to witness single
stress-driven sojourns into just
one mix-up at
a time
in a far field it is all planned
out in
context as if nature has no
say in the diagram no dime but
neatness counts next
to godliness
count on the god of nature
to muss it up like
a child's
thick head of hair prepared
to
flick it and
muss it once again
one senses an orderly progression
but don't count on it nature
revolves with all due deliberation
but there is myriad and
magic
and sweet despair in a far field
the ricks are
slick and square and tall
but oh to be a child again and again
to jump and
dive and fall
