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|  TALL GRASS

 
  Barns love these grey days,
silently waiting for snow.
Giant grass, with featherhead seeds,
absorb the clouds,
dream about a forgotten river.
Canada thistle and bullrushes race aimlessly along a ditch.

Winters here are brown.
Mist and rain now the only language
left to trees. The green leaves
have lost their voice
high up in the summer cathedrals,
wrinkled and shrivelled in silence,
gathered between the meadow weeds.

The sky is a blank iron mirror.
There's no escape
into the dark opening
of the falling wooden barn,
grass blocking the way.


from The Wind is a Tall Man Striding
watershedBooks
2000
Copyright © Jim Slominski