Measuring in moon form,
in dog days and worm turns,
seed husk and beetle dust,
the drought dry procession of
loam to breath held and
spells spilled, this furtive
yearn spent soil wastes
wishing for the renewal of
old glories, that ghost
gone for whenever there’s
some small thing missing
keeping the whole ensemble
at that moment before
completion, when it isn’t so much
a hope as a habit, stepping into
the strike, knowing the distance,
the difference from probable
to likelihood, home
coming and going, the signal
hinted in each incidence,
weed green and spring blue.
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