Come And Live With Me

“Come. Come and

live with me.”

Her voice has always

been the same.

Somewhere in an old barn

and must-smelling earth.

Someplace where the hoot owl

sings to night blossoms

and the wind is dark

and sweet like

rare old wine.

Some sunny place where corn stalks

unbutton their green jackets

and wag their golden

hair in the full breeze.

Someplace where farmers

lean on unpainted fences

and spit tobacco juice

through rust-stained teeth.

Someplace like that—

I don’t remember. But

someplace like that,

I found her.

“These places still exist.”

I tell myself,

“Somewhere they still exist!”

But I cannot find them.

I am unable to recall

her name, who she was,

the nature of her lure.