He stands too close,
hands moving like windmill blades,
spinning tales about plowshares and crop rotation.
I nod, caught in the orbit
of his unblinking passion.
The room hums with quieter conversations,
but he carves a groove in time,
shaping fields from syllables.
“Imagine the oxen,” he says,
as though I could conjure their breath.
I sip my drink,
feeling the weight of centuries
pressed between his words.
Did I know barley was sacred?
That soil remembers everything we forget?
He leans forward as if proximity
might plant wisdom in the fallow
of my polite attention.
Somewhere else, laughter erupts,
an escape I no longer need.
Because amidst the labyrinth of his devotion,
I see not a scholar,
but a man chasing meaning
in the furrows of a world
he insists on loving.
-
Author:
gray0328 (
Offline) - Published: May 30th, 2026 03:39
- Category: Unclassified
- Views: 13
- Users favorite of this poem: sorenbarrett, Friendship
Offline)
Comments4
good write, enjoyed
Thank You Norman
welcome
Metaphorical but so bordering on the real its passion felt in every line. We all have been there where someone enflamed speaks of the inane and unable to escape gracefully we are caught unwilling spectator to an argument we do not have. This poem masterfully evokes that feeling in lines understood and maybe halfway agreed with but distant in one's mind or level of priorities. A lovely write that could be taken a level deeper. A fave my friend
Thank You Soren
Most welcome Gray
Well crafted. Enjoyable read.
Thank You Katie
Well done
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