Orange around the trees
at morning time,
flicking dew off the wheat
where I till the earth
and sweat through my shirt.

The horse is by the road,
the land stretches forever
as you pick poppies. Your
laughing and small flowers
dangle in your hair.

The clouds are forming
and you point to the horizon
at the flashes of light
and the funnel cloud
holding all our dreams and fears.

You’re looking at me that way,
like you’re content to be here
watching me turn the soil
and pick worms from the dirt
and who are we? Are we farmers?

Are we old? Am I your Father
in the field waiting for the dinner
bell? Am I your lover, your brother,
or a friend across the way?
How many times have we done this?

This is the storm to end all storms.
I look back and hold out my hand
but that’s where it ends. Will you
take my hand and follow
before the storm tears us apart?

In all the lives and all the pain
I found you again, dirty, plain.

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