“Working Through Dad’s Pain”
The train-tracked fields of summer strain,
The sheer annoyance of winter's rain
and among it all, a conclave
of clucking hens, free range
but shackled in their own corner of the pen
still waiting to be let go
yet pecking at the hand with seed.
One
A lost soul behind a line
drawn in earth, no time
to see the other side of the coop.
Another
body full of knick knacks,
talons cracked,
wandering the dry pasture
as I watch from the fence
after I
picked up the downed, dead plums
from the fall.
Your voice was heard through the cherries south
“These next”
A deep and empty black yard bag hanging from a branch.