Farm Poem #13

Soft, the snow of blossoms
Petaling the walkway,

The wake of a wedding train
Purling the soldier course,

Color, forsythian fireworks,
Redbuds frothy, raspberry frappe

Bronchioles of lilac
Sighing scent

Dogwood baby’s breath
In the foreground afterthought

And there, bifurcated gardeners,
Cattle tearing the soil

In great calamitous chunks,
Dirt-eaters, stone-lickers,

Rooting their skulls against
The raw ground

Until their faces grow masked
With slick clay,

Bacchanal, fierce, eruptive,
Pawing pasture to pieces

Scraped skyward only to fall
On spines, scapulae,

Raising their tails,
Jetting fecund streams of

Feces, flung far,
As far as far,

Splattering and splashing
Leaves and grass,

Ignoring the flowers
And gorging instead

On violets, dandelions,
Garlic mustard with

Phosphorescent blossoms,
Lessons their mothers taught

Them long ago about,
What, precisely, was what.

How now, apple cow?

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