Not much flax is grown
     in the Ozarks nowadays
though Good Friday returns
     year after year.
So they sow their oats
     in the moonlight
while their hair runs
     like a bobcat after deer.

They plant their sweet corn
     on the first grey morning
that they hear the echoes
     of the white doves’ coo.
And on the bright and blind days
     never will they make
a plain and simple plan
     to see a murder through.

They bury all their old boots
     underneath the fresh peach trees;
right beside the root knot,
     the more decayed, the better.
They gather up lost souls
     after the winds twist by,
and they mow down itchy weeds
     with sharp and biting letters.

They drive an iron nail
     through their left foot
should they stumble
     in a ‘tater patch.
They look for new loves
     under felled cedars
hoping for
     young hearts to catch.