Original EveryPoem Studio house-voice poem.
Choose a genuine response. Counts appear only after several readers agree.
The gate he built still drags one corner through the dust. Lift, then push,
He read weather in swallows, in the ache of one knee, in cattle turning backs to rain.
He walked the fence at evening, not because the wire had changed, but because wind, cattle,
Mud dried on the boots in maps of the north field. One lace had been knotted twice.
He knew each field by the way rain stood in it, which gate sagged,
Not every wonder became a speech. Some entered memory quietly: shepherds smelling of fields,
Reader conversation
No approved comments yet. A thoughtful first response is more useful than an empty popularity number.