Hazy, Dirty by Summer Adorned
Expectant, conspiring the sun, bearing fond flights of pause, the laborer gleaned the gossip of Summer means and dirty rushes of dust; reaping love bugs and blue bottle flies, a strange brew, nonetheless ordered by lone homage to the shovel, to the uneven earth and clay resilience of a ditch dug in mash wells of drunken urge.
He sipped at the lightning as he rested, breathed a better wind in refuge of past feelings of lurid spectral defeat. The crop, the ditch, the flow unto thrusts of saffron glory and rejoicing wheat blossom, combined to give the laborer an aura of ancient drama, the game for the sake of the crop and the game. He was empty and relieved by the clear liquid, maddened by the illumination, dazed resolved in intoxicating wines and rare wonders of heaven. Secured he’d dressed in salvations adornment, to dig the trench between Sweetwater wash and seed divine. A close cure for drought, grown with love, dirt and moonshine he wore choir robes full to ankle and silken sure, for soaring summits of prayer and the eternal promise of the harvest. It was a logical hunger for the good run, the real haul for crops and labor and dust.
The laborer trifled the first liberty in drink to the last and a life and time told by eons revealed by the labor of digging ditches for the irrigation of the blessed earth, in dusty earth for the sake of the seed.
submitted at 10:14am
16 June 2010