Like the MoonAberdeen, in South Dakota: nothing,
Tiny and it's cold in April, no buds on
The trees, no trees upon the rolling
Prairie, no cars on the highway,
Endless miles between farmers'
Homes. How can someone live out
Here? Does one grow desperate
To speak, to see another, to be
Certain one's not living on the moon?
I'll never learn. I'm sure of that.
Once our friend's daughter's had
Her wedding, we won't loiter.
We'll race south, as forecasts,
Even now, in April, call for
Poetry by Lawrence Beck
Read 38 times
Written on 2021-04-24 at 19:24
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