Ancient Tombs of Banan
Four very light pebbles attached
to flung-sprung rubber band found
between new laid bricks, retrieved
by mound-viewing haze-gazer reminds
him of the day he gave up that for this.
Tall seeded grasses wave as a group
passes and a small bee buzzes with
interest. The man with no plan sees rice
on the land, chattel by cart, its grain
raked onto black plastic on the road.
Some is still standing, Van Gogh’s yellow
landing between green and smoldering
fields. Ggachis fly by, bales are stacked
high, a rooster lets loose surrounded by
mountains’ shapes feathered in as if Ross
took his two-incher and stroked Payne’s
gray in a jagged horizontal line between
white grading to blue atop, and the
harvester’s fog below. Set free again, he
sits looking at ancient burial homes
so rounded and soft, kept mown, who
knows how, in pairs that excite the
dream of the lonely tractor driver
who precisely gathers the rows. He
leaves tracks for spring’s women to sew.
Here comes a guard atop Folk Museum
to punch his post. He doesn’t look hard
or he’d see the forbidden beer that
mimics the color of one more field’s
cloud that floats by but still notices tears.
Copyright, Doug Stuber, 2014. Unauthorized use and/or duplication of this material without express and written permission from this blog’s author and/or owner is strictly prohibited. Excerpts and links may be used, provided that full and clear credit is given, and with appropriate and specific direction to the original content.