RAIN POEM
We change the names
of things to rhyme, add
syllables for distance –
and lulled by the assonance
of forgetfulness, perhaps
we sing too much.
We built a barn for hay
and horses, three pipe stalls
and a tack room under roof.
There is an art to rolling
and forking alfalfa
every morning, once the hay’s
been through the horse.
Yet another pen to find
sacrifice with satisfaction,
repaying times and heart
the old bay gave
anytime I asked –
my wheelbarrow dance
steady under rain on tin,
my open gate rake
between sound legs
pushing twenty-nine,
I shovel shit
and write poetry
at the same time.