Blowing the seeds to fertile ground,
Cooling the sweat from the working brow.
Running from the thunder, leading it to the parched grass.
The wind balances the world, sawshaying around bluffs and trees.
Except in the midwest where the trees are few and far between
And the grass anchors down the ground until it can’t raise itself anymore.
So here we sit because it blew us down,
The clothes have been dry since they went up.
My face is chapped and my hair a mess.
I know you have to be there, but holy shitake mushroom, please don’t blow all week.