I walk past buildings shuttered and dung covered
red paint a hundred years old painted a dozen times over,
nose stink filled, inhale 'cuz deep I dare you.
This is fertilizer season, season of cow smells on the farmland.
This is Oley and you know you love it.
Pale flaking paint half-covers the barn,
red and blue stars of the hex sign reads the country side,
corn crib ripped-almost apart by the tides of the wind and weather and climate and seasons gone by.
Iron trusses ring against metal
and my mother calls us to dinner with the din of the great triangle.
Family, now called, comes from distant fields to dinner,
part made by an acre now come full
of cucumber, peas, green beans, pumpkins, corn, and so many that the mind loses count.
Prunes, cherries, pears. A grape vine for my daddy's homemade wine:
I stomped that wine, and having many years later drank that wine,
woooh! the blast comes first and then perhaps you reminiscence of the taste.