Last year I bought a farm down south
with no notion of the rules of the land
I dug my dirt in line with the constellations
charted my fields by the paths of the moon,
layed my seeds when it waned,
harvested when it waxed.
But my grapes weren't ready to be harvested
just ice green, hard and bitter
the rain had turned to hail, the hail to snow
and a salty wind left its flesh parched and pungent.

What good are my rotten grapes, and what
kind of wine will come out of all this?

The strawberries I planted turned to bloom
but never produced any fruit.
My queen bee arrived in the mail
it's confused buzz arose the
curiosity of the postman,
and with one fatal slice he opened the package
and let my prize escape.

There will be no honey to sell in the market this Winter
no sweetness to cover the coarse bread that I collect
from the French bakery every day.

The dark stayed like a persistant flu,
now I'm just waiting for the bronchial cough
or the final gasp of nature as it tries to recover
from this cold snap.

No, I tell you, it is better to follow the sun
for the moon is madness.

My body whirs like a windmill around the frost
waiting for the solstice to bring back the light into my dark
so when you come
harness the sun with a heavy-duty rope,
and bring it weeping at your side
bring it's joy and trap it in your wicker box
but when you release it to my fields, just hold onto that rope
and next year we can live like kings.

copyright © the author, 2000