A Visit to the Man with a Walking Stick assuming Sense of Place

was I, soft and sweet
Now, herecow by sandpit
Keeping the fellow
knowing of 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 and clad
Cloak, never does it chock
Being spun
sometimes knowing the run
No fighting in facing for the sun
River that are
Where old cotton trees grow
It’s in the seed
Break the twig, star and pride
It’s before you, but you hold it in your hand
Look at it, holding it, knowing it
You are part of it,
greatest span and planned
Stand on hill tops
Be where you are
The horizon where grass grows
Sweeping fields, no longer weep

Windmills turn and fires burn
Geese squeak and squawk as an act
While bee stung my cheek, all in the barnyard
Come, compromised, with age 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, the snap of thunders break
While corn tassels hung
Causing sneezing from the sun
I was just as the tadpoles
When he was walking with sticks
Grey in his hair
Liked to play croquet for flair
Silent understanding of the land
He knew it provided what made man

– Rachelle


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