the crescent moon a sickle, low over the wheat fields , pink band of sky, crickets singing, one by one , a blink, the night so freckled. you pause and I pause on the porch, the cold marble porch where the rickety wooden one used to be. you light your pipe and a thousand smoky dreams emerge. I will take you out of this ocean of rye and barley, out of this desert of wheat to where life is sputtering.  

© 1990 - 2003 Katharina Woodworth