Under an Oklahoma Sky

Conversationally-speaking, we’re wearing thin
giving in, turning clods of words like so much cheap dirt
under an Oklahoma sky

This is the same stretched ground which has borne fruit before, sure,
but it’s old, it’s best days are long since
blown back
by tornado breeze of impending age

No matter how much bullshit you use to turn the soil
it’s never coming back

The toil becomes a wasted venture…

yet look around,
you see them?

There! And There!

Slapping at the mud until they are dripping..
pulling the same weeds they have pulled
every year, a collection, green,
pallid
collected
in a pile
near
the split-rail fence

The talking is now done
this field has borne it’s last
it’s time to move on

to till the new fields…

Modern fields, virgin dirt where there are no bones
yet the ideas will grow pristine in haphazard rows
fresh
exploding
thick and rich
new and new and new…


© JR Maston 2007