He had never been an intended farmer
And, perhaps, Mr. Frost knew he never would be
Unintentionally up in the notches…working the land with hands calloused by tragedy
Cursed tractors, sullen cows, an unconditional hell’s paradise
Baskets of discoveries…In one’s own unmade garden
…
Trained to farm the land…Once gone…
I had no intention of going back.
Searching the pavement for creativity
poking about the neon
digging in dollar signs and dimes for deliberate self-discovery
The writings on the wall were slipping away into graffiti
…
So, maybe Mr. Frost had been an intended farmer, after all
His seeds of thought burning a hole in my pocket
His travels into struggle…
Left open for me green fields of self-discovery