The horses loved the sweet clover, though it made their mouths foam
as they grazed across the rolling fields of thistle, onion weed, and rye.
They roamed about while swishing tangled tails at the onslaught of flies.

Bulbs sprouted out of the rich dirt within the pots my father placed upon the porch.
Eventually sun-craving morning glories and leaves of gardenias spilled from them,
with green tendrils of ivy spiraling down the railings I would slide down.

My heels were always calloused in the summer

When the world turned cold we took the surviving petals, pressing them into hardcovers.
Weeks later, we would tape their preserved bodies to the windows in the kitchen.
Meanwhile, the trees dropped their leaves which fluttered to their roots,
making them easier to climb, but harder to hide in.

The fields turned to a barren brown.
A bright red tractor already plowed any wheat away,
never knowing it crushed a groundhog and her children beneath spinning blades
But tomorrow the stained sight made me cry, and I ran back home to my attic.

There was never much to do

​

But a wood bookshelf beside the wood stove could keep someone out of the cold,
with its snow-angels and snow-huts and snow-men.
Brittle firewood sat on the porch, waiting to be lit, covered in
icicles that doubled every minute, clinging to anything they could find.

When the snow cleared, the rolling fields emerge again

The land changes little over sixteen years;
An overambitious farmer cleared out three hedgerows,
A favorite tree became infested and later felled.
If you strain your ears enough, some evenings
You can hear the Parkesburg train’s whistle
A new station was built four-so miles west.

Maybe it’s comforting, knowing that everything will be the same,
Ten days or ten years will cause no difference