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Post by Ken Corbett on Feb 19, 2004 17:59:43 GMT -5
As the unseen hand of the wind opens and shuts the gate to your lane I look through your window watch the fire on your hearth dance along the birch and maple.
I pause on the rutted path, summon images from the years that we shared in these fields so long ago. Will you know me
who as a callow youth left the safety of our farm, driven by a nameless urge to go beyond meadow’s edge
and venture into strangeland, to find out who was calling and what they wanted from me.
Will I know you whose days are spent in labour twitching stumps and rocks from the time-worn fields,
nights bathed in sweat pulling breech-born calves from wombs, worrying about the harvest, content in your small world. How many children now?
I turn, softly shut the gate behind me, regain the road. My feet find once again the path I walked down so many years ago when I first turned my back on my care-free childhood. It’s not time yet. Soon, but not yet.
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Post by Elle Rush on Feb 20, 2004 10:26:33 GMT -5
This pulls at me, beckons with unresolve. Something about this I identify greatly with. You've found your muse again, and I am happy for it. Especially like the caution displayed in the last stanza. This seems very therapeutic.
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Post by AquarianM on Mar 6, 2004 20:54:02 GMT -5
I read this and I feel drawn to say don't let "not yet" be too late. Still, I also found it very refreshing in some strange way. It's good to read about the farm. Sometimes I think that the world of farms and land are not so small at al when you add up what they mean to all of us, and I do not mean just food. We've lost way too much when we left the land for the city, in many ways.
Dan
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