Farmer’s Prayer

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Sweet dusty sagebrush

and sunrise mint breath,

wet tomato-leaf: scents

steep within my sun-warmed mug,

 

thrumming with a honey bee

hum. I want to be alone

this morn, heating up outside-in

and waiting for no one to begin the day.

 

Black oak, stretch beyond

the lonesome cloud house.

It’s Sunday; I would pray

if I knew how.

 

Instead I hold a mass of earth-

crumble damp clods of dirt

in palms upturned. I kneel in rows

of berries to worship in my church.

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