A Visit to the Man with a Walking Stick

Then
was I, soft and sweet
Now, herecow by sandpit
Keeping the fellow
blind to the brow

Don’t stop and drop
the plow
Harvest flowers of speak
In the winds of north way keep
Have you been hidden in a tree?

Cotton keeps us clean
Cloak, never does it chock
Being spun
sometimes knowing the rate race run
No fighting in facing for the sun
While the rivers run
Where old cotton trees grow
It’s in the seed, carried by a bird
Breaking the twig, for the star inside
You are part of it,
Stand on hill tops
Be where you are
The horizon where grass grows
Sweeping fields, no longer weep

IMG_2217Windmills turn and fires burn
Geese squeak and squawk as an act
While the bee stung my cheek, all in the barnyard
Come, compromised, with aged tone in his voice
Swing with me under guard
here where the elm tree grows
Do you hear the prophet sound the caterpillar makes
back and down until its rebound
bushy, furry, profound
Frogs won’t soon leap and lap
In puddles rained down,
While corn tassels hung
Causing sneezing from the sun
I was just as the tadpoles
When he was walking with a stick
Grey in his hair
spoke his mind into the air
Silent understanding of the land
He knew it provided what made man

– Rachelle

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