Country Fires
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Again, engines sleep and tractor tires
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are treadless, bald as a grandfather�s
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scalp. Oil hardens in barn buckets
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that would slosh if blooms offered
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their gifts, as they will and will again
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when willows wind their arms of affection
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around April�s stout shoulders, winter
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fires flown north to find mates, wood
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measured in neat cords, stacked
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like the bullets of a waiting magazine,
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sly ammunition for future war. At night,
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bonfires replace the blackened bricks
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of parlors when trees make greening love
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to spring, hickory to tobacco leaf, browning
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for taste and roll, but fields are white now,
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and the warmth of hearths and hearts
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that know winter, have held its hand
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and fought its cold with whiskey and warm
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wishes of June, with heart-fires for family
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and soybeans, children of seeds that sprout
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from the flames of loins and hot blood
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of hands, provide the heat and meat
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of survival. It is a tender time, cozy days
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of memory, nights of rocker squeaks
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and rest, dreaming under quilts of flowers
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as red as the dead center of summer
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watermelons that grow with sunfire,
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behind happy houses, in gardens that give.
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(first appeared in Triplopia)
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