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Near the house on the farm,
the thistle grows thick
and free.

Each time I go to step
past the rocky ledge,
I can’t.

This is where the old oak,
like a crippled hand,
grows tall.

Through airy spring, the blood
of tired ones runs
like dust.

I do not step forward,
however sweet berries
grow among the Dead Thorn.

I do not step forward,
however possessed the
wind sings in thistledown.

I do not stir a thing
because this is where
the old oak

stands.

This article appears in April 2011.