A lazy farmer reclined
In a barren, ugly field
Planting strange black seeds
In a secret garden
He waited for a crop to grow
By the dawn of summer
The plants shimmered
Like poisonous metal
Mercury, nickel, and lead
Quickly, they bore fruit
In the shape of human heads
On which he carved familiar faces
Of his wife, his children, his parents
Of his neighbors and his kin
By Autumn his farm became a forest
Of faces turned hollow
As insects burrowed within
Thursday, June 14, 2012
The Crop
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again, like many of your other poems, this one hit me like a hammer of guilty conscience, as I very much identify with the lazy farmer (writer)
ReplyDeleteThis was a painful read. Mostly, because it is so beautiful and horrifyingly vivid in its images, and it forces me to reflect upon my own conduct.