Weavers

March 30, 2011 § Leave a comment

They sat weaving dreams

amidst the tall grasses,

leaning against a gray

silo half full of grain.

.

Everything could happen.

Honeysuckle grew wild in

the silo’s shade. They pinched

its nectar into their mouths.

.

Late-day sun slid down bare

legs, landing on dandelions

yellow and moon white.

.

Across the gravel drive

four red heifers looked up.

One flicked an ear.

.

How could they know?

These girls in ponytails,

the wonders they would

make and miss and find.

.

Or how the measure of

each blade of grass, slipped

to squeak between fingers

and woven around wrists

.

was part of all that mattered.

So much would come back

to here. To the long metal

gate, to the staring heifers, to

the floating tufts of dandelions.

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