Indian Summer in the Valley
On my fantasy farm I spend my day harvesting squash and researching borscht recipes. Rhubarb whispers what it wants me to do to it. In a rocking chair, I prick my finger sewing together the jacket of this year's scarecrow. Sore, I earn my hunger. Handsome becomes an adjective for tractors. Tall is talk for corn. Canning is dictated by instinct. I know the exact phase of the moon. Music is a hum originating from the space between my two bottom ribs. Rhythm is picking before there's ice. Insomnia exists only in my dreams.
On my fantasy farm I spend my day harvesting squash and researching borscht recipes. Rhubarb whispers what it wants me to do to it. In a rocking chair, I prick my finger sewing together the jacket of this year's scarecrow. Sore, I earn my hunger. Handsome becomes an adjective for tractors. Tall is talk for corn. Canning is dictated by instinct. I know the exact phase of the moon. Music is a hum originating from the space between my two bottom ribs. Rhythm is picking before there's ice. Insomnia exists only in my dreams.
Is so romantic, there on your fantasy farm. I want to dance with handsome tractors.
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