Diction for Harvest: A Poem

Diction for Harvest: A Poem

Pin down the wind crouching in the ditches
like punctured gutter leaves during rain,

dust to mud to seed to root, sometimes
sun to dead leaves to cracked ground, 

black dirt upturned in metal arms, left
with enough breath to nourish a tender crop, 

prayers for rebel children whispered alone
to the water-stained ceiling each night,

whir of combine heads parting the bronze
rows. Worry is the weed of a restless season, 

hew the high corn at its flaking knee cap
to bleed out under hulking machine light, 

convert sleep to waking enough to suffer hours
in hot-box cloth seats and surveying full acres, 

each an outstretch of your hand, your patience. 
Then extend both to anticipate summer’s savage wind, 

that creamy fire stifled by man’s anger
and the surprise of overnight irrigation, 

the miracle water healed and culled
to wine by metaphor, by open sky. 

In Defense of Young Love

In Defense of Young Love

As We Live and Tweet: How to Really Be a Social Media Activist

As We Live and Tweet: How to Really Be a Social Media Activist