new poem

Harvest
These lines form a pattern, in the dark skin
Of this tired leathery hand on my arm.
My father gave me these hands to break the
Earth, and build the world in my own life.

This pattern, broken and cracked is the map
By which I will navigate this terrain.
The water’s clear edge, breaks against the dust
That lays the foundation for these lost fields.
The dirt beneath these sallow nails will never be cleaned.
The roots that built me are in this dark midwestern soil.

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About fathomlessregression

I am a musician, writer, painter, brother, husband, and father. I have more questions about life than I do answers, and spend the majority of my time exploring the infinite number of possibilities that exist. This is accomplished through my art, music, writing, and most of all through conversation. View all posts by fathomlessregression

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