Change removes doubt while sowing the seeds for more of it.
The crop needs to be regularly harvested or weeds set in.
It’s a full-time job.
Dust settles on me.
The setting sun smells of hard work yellowed by advancing age.
The must is pleasing. As a boy I’d stop and fill my lungs
whenever I caught a whiff of it. I do that now.
My hands are calloused.
The horizon blazes to my left; to my right the farmhouse
traces shadows of closure.
There is no one out here but me.
The moment is heavenly.
Tomorrow it may rain.
The seeds will germinate.
The sun should not always blaze, like it did today.
A good crop requires both gloom and glory.
A good farmer fears neither.
Fractal Art: Dust