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May 2018
~for Maya, the Persian Canadian farmer in the dell~

your poetic riddling questions without hesitation re
my claim conceptual
refuting with factoids actuarial experiential derived,
that cows need milkshake making daily by sunrise

so you wake me up groggy on a Miami Saturday 6:00am
with a reciprocal poetic to a dashed off to contra my
code of conduct poem-mine;
and all that stumbles through my almost reset rested,
main stem cortex is an a ancient hebrew homily:

on Sabbath Saturday, even the cows sleep late

just tween us rare passes the day that a glancing phrase doesn’t register a stabbing whine “of me, of mine do sing” and your point counterpoint incision demands inspiration instant re-mission

around 10am when the amiable barn aminals sipping cuppa #3,
and the chicken children want a weekend brunch xtra feeding
are done, in the yard, put out to
pack n' peck n’ play

so that’s an intro to this work
that jumps the line of a
hundreds of other’s poems promised and overdue:

insight inside your crafted wake up slam slap was
pretty **** near the makers mark bourbon of this distillers
bourbon barrels bulbous poem’s bibliothèque that
has an  impatient waiting list
of poems waiting anointing

each a personage~poem of that day it was birthed inscribed

this particular one for you,

my complexity non-Napoleonic
just humanoid each, here are my leaders from and
into a veining so lovely colored

each poem a waving wheat stalk
before these old tired eyes close to closing hear once more

“of me, of mine do sing”

so I follow all of you by dimming yellow light,
for this is the soil of nutriment rich from where my
words grow taller and the yellow infusion feeds my wheats,
the amber, the red hard and soft, the whites, the durums,
and mon préféré, prairie spring white,
which is my secret nickname for a duality woman,
poet and farmer,
posing riddles
that deserve answers


Nat Lipstadt
Written by
Nat Lipstadt
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