he stretched to the moon his hand, fingers pointing into unknown fathoms with an ethereal line breaking beyond gravity and limits as he stood on the soil of his part of the earth looking up into the dark and black tempting, taunting the distance from her to there in defiance
each year a roadside meadow bordered by stonewalls breathes a harvest of wild flowers and weeds sharing soil and space rain and wind seasons of change providing evidence of a glorious gift
dragging the hand through freshly tilled soil stirs silent spirits to life, encouraging a closeness a purpose of being as the hand passes through previous millennial seasons each with a message of endurance and promise, impartial to flowers or weeds for this year or next
the energy of day resigns itself to evening thin shadows cast linen gray images onto sides of cottages and front porches the soil and trees release a tired breath as night occupies all spaces darkness closes day lilies, a reminder that time runs with us until it fails
clouds turn like pages stories release from the swelling haze the sun strongly appears shining on road signs of the heart a late burning dusky sky suggests tomorrows forecast as day rolls over into night and dawn releases an overflow of rain from heaven; the soil drinks the sky dry
Winds circle wheat tops twisting stems into spasms like thieves running over dried leaves and dead branches sunshine strikes window surfaces when passing clouds allow percussion’s of light to pass around dense mist the ground thirsts for rain the blood of soil
Roger Singer 