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fertile now
these cotton fields
endless rows of waiting –
sometimes the stars
sit low within her legs
counting back with disbelief
nights before
the harvest –
barns already empty
apron worn to rags

frigid halls
and ice cold floors
chatter of the aged
men to speak of women
down the way –
dreamers sleep in twisted knots
whispers of another
and what became of heroes
blue and grey

dearest thought of
morning strolls –
rusted nails and ribbon
boxes rift with hats we never wore
stretch the line
from post to porch
mark the miles for minding
carve our days
and make of love
our chore

renew the vow
of infamy –
seven more than sisters
held to certain fortune
I remain
silver spoons
and let my lesson
keep me from returning –
dared by demons
watching now
to know the way
I came