Friday, May 27, 2011

As wheat brushed the farmers ankles
He stood still and listened
A far away sound
Began to haunt him.
His weather beaten skin tingled
The wind dancing to the rhythm of this distant
Haunting, threshing of souls.
The sound of his scythe
brushing back and forth
a futile effort to overcome
An inhabiting weight.
His chest heaved
As if something sat on top of him
He felt the pressure of this new day
The distant thundering pulse of
A far away god moving in
A landowner turned sharecropper
By the cries of joy and mourning

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