by J. Don Coonrod
I trudge along a broken border
between fields plowed and planted
and the soaring dark forest nearby.
One, a mother’s breasts full of milk—
the other, cool dark recesses of life unknown,
unknowable, and fleeting shadows of night.
As I walk down the friendly furrowed lanes of
carefully broken earth, I study the mysterious
woods uncertain—then gaze into the sky and
shrug and keep to the path of soft, worked loam
that will quickly take me home.