Foreword Reviews - - Spotlight Reviews Poetry -

My grand­fa­ther wore a sweat stained fe­dora, a red feather from a ban­tam rooster in the band, and the mule he com­manded seemed not so much at­tached to the plow as ar­rayed in leather and hemp, in­ter­sect­ing rings, hal­ter, belly band, and blinder, and neb­u­lar swarms of sweat bee, horse fly, bot­tle fly, and gnats like live par­ti­cles of penance he hosted for the curse of be­ing a mule. My grand­fa­ther be­lieved work was the surest way to nav­i­gate time, and time, though high and mighty any given day, though flashed out in sun or ex­pen­sive as rain, all came down to the dirt in the end, and you plowed time, or your part of time, and planted and prayed, but not with words you’d hear in church, and no more to God than the mule prayed to God, and no more to­ward heaven than the end of the row— grain in the bucket, cold wa­ter from the well.

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