Out to the Farm in July

By Tonya Lailey

Out to the farm in July

Away from shade

into dust

west from the river

from vines that climb


Away from the stewed plant lap of the shore,
from scents banked in raspberries, 
spicebushes, fringed bromes, hop sedges, 
bonesets, running strawberries.

Out from cantilever trunks, crowns 
foresting currents, branches rooting
sunlight, roots tripping paths.

Out from entwined vines we’d grab to swing on, 
to drop off

into the river.

Out to where the sky lies plowed 
open, the land levelled, soil blown-off, 
where chosen vines stand in lines, within concessions, on trellises.

Out to where we steady ourselves along the tightropes we’ve strung.