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