Steepside Life
Rain buttons the water-tight bug pond,
slow enough to can't hear it drop
on a tin roof Sunday.
All the time in the world
helps water wash us away.
It slickens the hillside briar
on the loam crawl down.
My yard's on its own
way into town, tangling the neighbors
on the long slide.
In a hundred years we'll all be valley
No comments:
Post a Comment