Near the house on the farm,
the thistle grows thick
and free.
Each time I go to step
past the rocky ledge,
I can’t.
This is where the old oak,
like a crippled hand,
grows tall.
Through airy spring, the blood
of tired ones runs
like dust.
I do not step forward,
however sweet berries
grow among the Dead Thorn.
I do not step forward,
however possessed the
wind sings in thistledown.
I do not stir a thing
because this is where
the old oak
stands.