Author Information
At The Farm On Sunday Afternoon
At his grandparents' place, their sole heir
(in second generation), the poet---
the bardic poet,
the internet bardic poet
with an obscure bardic name
(despite what the rest of the world might
call him)---came to proprietary residence.
Between the ancient lilac tree,
and the rusted iron arch, the roses' trellis,
he placed the pyramid of cerulean porcelain,
and the stone lantern of granite;
and between them, on a pedestal,
the lorraine cross,
at the very centerpoint of the property.
Into the unimproved farmhouse,
the second to stand
on the pioneers' foundation
(forgotten by the unremembered cousins),
he moved his collection of old, tattered books---
poetry, Biblical novels, and such---
into the study, with the wireless laptop.
In other rooms, appropriate furnishings appeared.
The caretaker, some local old man
who has a way with gardening and repairs,
comes every other weekday.
This is the poet's weekend place,
a refuge from the workweek's cares,
his Muse's escape from the campus,
her place of quiet study.
This sunlit Sunday afternoon,
between the morning's and evening's worship,
the poet sits by narrow creek,
the water winding about like his words,
sparkling in the early autumn's sunlight
that pours from the cloudless coerulescent sky.
And over among the wildflowers in sight,
Lady Jade wanders casually;
Lady Jade clad in her long-hemmed lavender gown, lace-trimmed;
curvaceous, shoeless---her sheer, off-black hose
have reinforcements at the heels and toes.
Starward
[jlc]
