Black Beans, Spoon-fed
Steady on the backtrail. Careful of the woods.
It is not clear to me — the ways it lies,
in a tilled walk, like a deer trail
through the cusps of the morning,
hazy with a sleep-crust that fogs the eyes.
It has not been a cake-walk, to be sure,
there have been earlies, where the night-dew
had hardened to a frost; a heavy finger runs
against a combine-tooth. I will to endure.
It has not arrived, like a stranger, a thing
not seen often around these parts;
black trepidation, a cold dinner of smoked beans,
tin can; a meal uneaten, this harvest won’t sing.
It has not been pie, and humble it might,
these farm roads — our winding dark earth;
these feet — place myself with a careful tread —
with these hands, I bring myself towards light.
MaggotsX @ 2024.05.19
John R. Hampton
Author’s Note: It was a difficult question Scott Ninneman asked:
“Who has/had the greatest impact on your stability/mental health?”. It was a…
