Passion Years later, an old man, he remembers One spring, opening earth that then was his, The new leaves like swaths of watercolor Brushed over the trees. He turned every now And again to watch the shares tearing up The stubborn sod and the avid birds drop To glut themselves on pink worms in the wake. It was then he felt surging up in him A desire he hadn’t felt in years, A father with two daughters and a wife He turned away from at night, not out of Lovelessness but weariness. He knew it Was too rare a feeling to just ignore And so stopped in the middle of the field, And stood up, and unbuckled his belt, and Made quick work of it, then went on plowing, Feeling slightly ashamed, as if someone Had been watching. Of course someone had been. Himself as an old man, remembering.
Passion
Passion
Passion
Passion Years later, an old man, he remembers One spring, opening earth that then was his, The new leaves like swaths of watercolor Brushed over the trees. He turned every now And again to watch the shares tearing up The stubborn sod and the avid birds drop To glut themselves on pink worms in the wake. It was then he felt surging up in him A desire he hadn’t felt in years, A father with two daughters and a wife He turned away from at night, not out of Lovelessness but weariness. He knew it Was too rare a feeling to just ignore And so stopped in the middle of the field, And stood up, and unbuckled his belt, and Made quick work of it, then went on plowing, Feeling slightly ashamed, as if someone Had been watching. Of course someone had been. Himself as an old man, remembering.