The farm in June is a shaggy dog
knee-deep in mud and in need
of a good trim. The last whispers of winter
lurk in the shade beside summer’s door
while the rain explodes into poppies
staining the green wheat gold.
The farm in July is a good boy,
been for a clip, and panting in the sun
while the cat sits, improbably spherical,
having feasted on mice as we made hay
as the sun exploded across the fields
fading the green grass gold.
The farm in August is an old best friend,
warm and lazy in the heat
of late afternoon. Dozing and sniffling
while the threshers hum in the distance.
Last night, heat lightning exploded across the sky,
leaving memories of green and gold.