A Way Farm Sweet

Farm sweet collective crop tones
broach known maturation,
loaning odyssey to static fields.
Their painting turns relaxing frost.
Sprawled hills seam the lake, salt-free,
and sky. The clouds protect
these unison long spans of line.

A fiddle tune if lost shows in the foreground
with swing chain needing grease.
What comfort to move forth and back
beneath a singular momentum tracing past.

The evening will arrive, as eyelids fall.
Informal mercy stalls the pace
of daylight's drawing toward
the morning of another name.

Fireflies wink away from everything below
the level of an eye.
A sliver moon chalks evidence mid-sky
of recollected light's available
wild tithing, promised as the soul arranges
to remove known poverty mid-depth.