#writeractorfarmer

Sincerely seven AM. Hard to lie once you’re up in the morning.The animals make noise. The kid climbs into bed, again.Sporadic drips tap the rain gutter on the bottom.A little blue-gray daylight weakly fingers the blinds.The mind’s eye only opens wide. Until two lackeyson the front of your face pop the lid.There’s a smile on the face of the kid,though his eyes are still closed behind blonde…

All the thoughts in my head are formattedwith question marks chasing after them.I would know nothing if not for confusion..Questions made me who I am. Like who am I?What is I. Eyes can’t see. Ice on the grass.For the first time since seven months ago.Seems so long. So any questions answered since.Makes my head spin. Questions turn the earth.For many reasons. For at least four seasons.

Hot pink. Cold blue. Lukewarm brown. Tepid canary.Vacation-ocean turquoise. Pine taupe. Cedar flesh.Red oak rose. The green that shows in paint but never nature.I don’t know the nomenclature. But I know what you meanwhen you say poop brown. City-gray. Brick orange.Charcoal roads that lead the way to white-hot home.

You’d build a fence that could hold water before it would keep in a scared goat. An animal with the unique ability to divorce itself from its vision, cast out its eyes like weighted lines, lost to woods deep as water, tangled on the bottom. A scary look, when you come invisible in the eyes of an animal staring right into you. If they had the force, those eyes would push you, and if he gets a…

The Hive (part 1)

Even when our institutions fail to, our brains prioritize feelings over truth. Your least trusting organ lies to you. All the time. About time. Impossible to find. But I could tell you something demonstrable, something that scarred my hands and blurred my vision and changed my entire way of thinking, and you’ll argue against it, tell me no, refuse to tell me why, because of a feeling in your…

First light. First coffee. First music. Is something reset overnight while we sleep. When did eight hours later suddenly become tomorrow. First rain in three weeks. The wetted lips of clover speak, the beaded blades of grass are weak, they curtsy with tear drops on point. First gardens. As if winter was asleep. The world wakes spring. Wishy-washy. Watch birds to tell the weather and soak every…

‘What is a page for?’

The one that happens after you’ve filled three others but haven’t quite reached the ending yet. I suppose a page four is a good sign, at least a couple miles behind you, you’ve gained some traction, moving along. A page is for boot prints to dent and backsides to rest on and when you’re finally ready to stick around, plant some seeds in, you’ve been turning it over all these years, may as well…

My grandpa only ever knew me as a little boy. I only knew him as an old man. But every day I work on his land, I stand under his trees, hold his soil in my hand and watch it drift away in the breeze, he knows. He sees.

I’m no longer a little boy.

The old man is buried by a church in town.

But when we pick up antiques and put them to work, when we give our backs to what we’ll never get back, we…