The Farm by Justin Aloia

The Farm

The trees exhaled their colors,
Showing us what they were holding in all year.
Things that had grown tall
And sang silent brilliance
Left ghosts behind
As husks on the ground;
Left ghosts behind in dry sound.

The last storm
To pass through was a wedding,
When late summer extended like a gangplank,
Or a dancer yearning
Into the final fulfillment of her form.

Rafters and dovetails
Framed heaven above
As current ran through the coils
And the barn danced on uneven planks,
A rustic temple of light,
A small sun
In the fallow fields of space.

Seasons empty
And leaves fall
As a thousand fingerprints.
Trees take a step
Back into anonymity,
Known only by the austerity of their pose
And wooden skin.

I want to be held here
And thaw on the other side of winter,
As I am now a creature collected
With all the others,
Finding our places in burrows, nests,
Structures and holes.

I wonder what the goat
Says to the alpaca in the dark
After I have latched closed
The heavy door
To the small barn.

Some things are kept in places apart
As I keep it hidden from myself
What I would say to you
If we inhabited a rough-hewn box of night
Or a pocket in the world.

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About Miriam Sagan

I'm blogging about poetry, land art, haiku, women artists, road trips, and Baba Yaga at Miriam's Well ( The well is ALWAYS looking to publish poetry on our themes, sudden fiction, and guest bloggers and musers.

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