Out to the farm in July
Away from shade
into dust
west from the river
from vines that climb
trees.
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.
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