Springtime on the farm.
wind blows,
tousles the tall grass so far spared
the mower's shears, and southward shares
a hint of cherries about to be.
the church brick warms.
A blue bird goes,
skirts the houses, scared.
The shot gun's appeared.
All feather bullet-seared,
He'll rest on the pear tree.
An unleashed dog crossing property lines.
Head low
Yes, he does know
He's doing wrong.
He slips past the pond,
scatters the bull frogs' songs
and the mayflies' smoky throngs,
by swishing through the reeds.
It was the scent and sight of the cotton tail,
or the flash and flight
of some feathered gale--
something's got him trotting out a footpad trail
in forbidden fields.
SHAME SHAME SHAME!
"don't you wag that tail"
(finger wags assail)
An old lady waves
her rag in a gale
of "Bah! Bah Get! You! Get, Be Gone!"
Oh, the guilt of living freely,
of transgressing merely
the lines drawn so unfairly
by the master's steely
will.
To there he's been looking daily
at the grapevines that just barely
sit out of reach and trail the
inclining contours of the hill.
(Now, he's in the throes of the thrill.)
What's on the other side of that hill?
A trickling stream to drink his fill?
A ball? A bird? A boy? A bed of grass
to rest upon?
He'll never know.
Bah. Bah. Get you! Get be gone!
jordan dejonge.
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