Chateau De Flee

At Chateau de Flee
the garden wall
embraces geese,
sheep and thirteen apple trees,
keeps the quail
near purple cabbage.
Tomatoes rise,
the staked straight
soldiers of the sun
against onions tall
as weeds.

As sun drops
and drags its last long
rake through furrows,
the old man
rises from his chair
and fumbles for his
scythe. His pants
are worn and soiled
where he’s been sitting
these many years
within the garden
entrance.

Walking carefully,
tool in hand,
he nears the last drift
of wild alfalfa,
lifts the scythe
and swings the swing
of centuries.

Of people lost
to centuries.

Sheep are fed
the wild hay of August.
The old man swings,
each stroke a pulse of
blonde light,
then shadow.
Of one more time.
Of reap until dusk
as sun
brushes his shoulders
before lifting off.

The old man is bent
near sunflowers engulfed in
twilight,
and he swings
Again.

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