i cannot even begin to-
or end. or endings.
every day is farmhand and farming.
every day is movement before waking
the moon's shadows hung still
underneath your eyes.
every day is backbreaking labor
blister sun-footed stamp on the
sides and neck
angry red footprints on your face.
the loam you run between finger and thumb
settles it's grave in your eye.
i train my spirit to circle you.
i busy myself planting.
every day is stumble footed faith.
i believe something else exists.
something beyond this.
i whisper this for you
because you do not.
dark stranger, weary farmer.
every day, an alarm of repetition.
again, the nothing and the subtractions
making rows in the corn.
all along the edges of land
you till a strange and weary beast.
i am yours through winter and starvation,
at least.
and for the beautiful in the horror, they call and repeat:
i am yours through these days, at least, at least, at least.maggie may ethridge
