Red Warren’s Red Loam
What secrets pass within the briar patch?
The shameful pride of histories reflect
across the Tennessee farmyard where hatch
the fruitage of young life Spring resurrects.
Cold shovels dig beneath the packed red loam,
red hair over red dirt; is it the other
way around? Go brood as the hearthstone
is scuffed by feet, you semi-blind star-lover.
Books say that minds never go home again,
our current sentiments divide us from
what we once thought, those buried childhood fears.
You look into your gnarled and aged-stained hands
and pull from entrails a curse for the downed sun
while telescoping the oscillating spheres.
-published in The Storyteller