Is It Poetry
Life As a Plowman
Behind a machine or horse.
As when it first appeared it is plowed.
Leads in hand one walks straight lines.
He after it was done, she opens up and said.
Each line has all my numbered years.
Tears count as snow where or youth has gone.
Time is that surface underneath I plowed.
Connection to each step by one hers the other.
As given back to her next to him, his wife.
To know that he gives it all back to the land.
She loves him to deeply, life in the sun he spent.
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