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Poetry
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| Rare Earth | |
| By hutmaster | ||||
| 27 July 2007 | ||||
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Cane straight at eighty. Years yet to dig your careful bean rows. To plant seed in rich, dark earth, and stand spade-sharp at twilight planning danders with cronies to the well on Betsy's Road. Times change. No daily shave, the dog unwalked. Garden harvests came and went, time spent staring at comfortless coals complaining of a chill in bones too old to till. Unwilling. Weeds shouldered through the last bean rows of your rare earth.
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