Distant Farmland Hills


Oh my! How I see the agency of the individual
embodied in this home of corn and dreams
that shine as bright as wheat fields
along mowed tractor-grass seams.

Here is where the first wheel was seen!
A boy plays outside; childish is his agelessness
searching for the unnamed sky birds
of both yesterday and tomorrow.

I smell trimmed grass—
Mother Earth’s blood in the air
and distant blades of green.
The streams of light on this land

offer the only proof
that time flies the same
as a petal floating toward a dim green light
on the other end of a sea.

PEEL BACK! this Goddess she once told me,
the myth of subjective self—
like a blanket warming a lamb,
and see beyond cultural identity.


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