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Smallholdings

by Gordon Ommen

 

The farm pond reflects—

I make my way around its

wordless signaling.

 

The corn is tasseled—

all it needs is one good rain

to produce a crop.

 

My farming friend said:

I'm gonna do a rain dance—

his big white belly.

 

Drizzle on the panes.

Curtains dampened on my sill—

cowboy boots, the mud.

 

Currencies of light,

these imperfect descriptions—

the farm pond reflects.