Walking down the wagon trails
sure thing you aren't reading braille.
Finding the path of the country roads
old stomping grounds have grown cold.
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When you are riding on the pine
the train blurs the scenery outside.
Inside the car the essence of time stands still
the wheels on the track and the clock
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The wind is cold
traffic drives by on the highway
one wanders on the trail
softly stepping on old and new grass
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Walk down the trail
the seeder and the tractor
starting to move without fail.
Half an hour
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The sun is shining above
on a cool, windy Saturday morning
after the Friday night rain
made the garden a muddy rut.
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Don't give a licken
to your chicken
unless you are in the kitchen.
White or dark meat
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I paint verse with my pen-brush
here there is no rush
to create my world of words.
But on the weathered work table
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One it is a colour
Two it is a fruit
no rhyme is possible being
for the simple orange
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Too little, too small stuff I can't tell God about that
but just wait it is not the devil who is in the details
it's God who is in the little details.
Quoting Psalm 4: 8
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Looking out the kitchen window
setting my eyes upon today's winter
the unharvested stubble still peeks through the snow
drifting upon the fence posts.
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