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Now that drought has killed
any hope of harvest, the sky
stumbles in drunk with rain.

I plant my feet in knee-high corn,
twist stalks and pull like Krishna
jerking a top knot.

What fusarium doesn't wilt
succumbs to nematodes.
Being a planter makes you crazy

like the celery farmer next county over
who lost his wife to root rot.
Pig Latin coursing through his brain

year after year of crop failure
staying up nights with a stick
to drive mice from the rows -

He buried his children until
only their heads broke ground.
This is the time for turning under .

I cleave a worm with my spade,
watch its two parts writhe and wonder
how the other half lives.

What a wonderful bleak poem! Love the imagery, the topknot, the drunken sky, etc. Terrific close after setting it up with the farmer who has lost his wife and children....

I agree, this is just plain fun.

Thank you both. Halloween brings stuff out

Yes, great imagination and well-written. Stanza’s 1,4,5,6, 7 are my favorites, but all good.

Thanks Billy

The last stanza is strong.
Man's inability to that of a worm's possibility.
Great imagery.

Thank you meenas