Walking and I walk
past buildings shuttered and dung covered
nose stink filled, enhale deep I dare you.
This is fertilizer season, season of cow smells on the farmland.
Paled red flaking paint half-covers the barn,
corn crib ripped almost apart by the tides of the wind and weather and climate and season gone by.
Iron trusses ring against a triangle of metal.
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 more
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.