Bearing It
Today, in the sun, my field holds seven different kinds of beige. To
breathe and watch: we have to bear it. The clouds swell–gray and
white and gray. Who’d pick a fight with the trees? With the sky? So
many have fled their windows and can no longer say, That barn is red.
The farmhouse beside it is white. While smoke rises behind them.
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dear one
dear one

