Bio Note: I am a retired firefighter living in the deep south with heat, humidity and trees. I suspect, over time, the land and weather becomes us and perhaps our writing; at least at times for some.
A Plowman's Moon
Earning a miner's poor hearing Night felt brilliantly Silent. Fluorescent shadows hug the hollows Cupped by old hills logged and farmed bald that Generations cut, scraping life on a slant. A yellow rototiller leans Upon two wheels and shining tines Alongside the tin pole barn. The night was bright enough to plow, Light enough to quiet owls, Subtle enough to hide scars.
©2022 Douglas Brown
Editor's Note: If this poem(s) moves you please consider writing to the author (email address above) to say what it is about the poem you like. Writing to the author is what builds the community at Verse Virtual. It is very important. -JL