She's the patient page
That felt first the soles
Of Amish folk
Bare feet, protecting her whiteness
The field has always been here
She wasn’t always a farm
But a skirt to the mountains bosom
Wheat grass doilies line her hem
The field has always been here
In her youth she blossomed
The willow
Lips through which the wind sings slow
Whose mystery increased
Under every sad branch
Whose shade made you cry
The field has always been here
She pollen bled the day they shaved her golden hair
The day they plastered her stomach
A scarring bath of tar down her middle
Pried open her elegant gate
And let you undress her with your eyes
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