by Michael Gullickson
An oak barrel cracked open
in a field of sage grass,
a home to button mice,
song beetles, pollen ants
an occasion of fleas.
A rusted piece of farm equipment
too weathered to identify
sits in the same field, alone.
I step across a broken fence
looking for signs of life
in the weed crowded field,
looking for signs that you were here.
{ 0 comments… add one now }