Who are we to deem
what is a weed
And what may grow.
To govern our ruin
by the sins we lay,
Growing in our eyes,
Bending to false light-
Through which we reach
Ripe for the picking;
The fruit of our demise.
The men have sat
Folded in hands Bare
Of their soil, they toil
Within the loam of mind
The ground cracks to reveal them
Wisened as they are, tapering
to the back of nights, telling
the little ones of the time
They were actually in touch.
The old windmill girdles the night
like a backdrop to the beginning
of the first trail of storm.
The cost of it all.
We begin to know.
