What a din of texture 

spread around canvas

collided colors,

 

scattered like chickens

you fed each morning-

farmer’s daughter,

 

kneeding the dough

aching from work

aching from brothers

 

at the farmhouse,

chicken coop,

and cellar

full of jugs.

 

There’s fire’s muteness

speaking volumes

about the trash

burned to usefulness,

 

for roses

colors blending

turning

into her kitchen.

 

Dave Barber

16 November 2008

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