At the Mill
Soft Shenandoah shelters misfits and malcontents,
nurtures sheep with large genitals, photographer’s family,
hay-hoisting horse owners, trick-turning truck stoppers,
inventive harvesters, Steeles Tavern sewers, bountiful beauty.
Naturally, writers abound surrounded by such: one wins
five grand at the pharmacy, takes leave of the women
long enough to type her new voice, a beacon who
fortifies fellow polygamists with purple-winked ink.
Fur-clad apparition returns, disrupts midday bushwhack
with its presence, historical, ominous, predictor of days
you can’t bear to ponder. Satiated, you grab her hand
for emotional balance, slipping down moss-laden rocks, afraid.
Grinder-switch melodies follow tight patterns until, fed
by grain, new grist emerges. Wind spirit magnifies terror;
your steps quicken, but you think of three others: photographer,
writer, compost collector: a post coital spook, still yearning.
Copyright, Doug Stuber, 2005. 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.