My dear friend I woke up this morning and the sky was stifling tears I hoped it would cry for you I knew you had planted a whole field yesterday tucked your hopes and good humor into tired ground so overworked that it blew away with a breath of the noon wind If only the day would give you a chance to grow something to show for your sweat I was never born a farmer but my callused fingertips recognize the loamy feeling of the world keeping a secret under its skin and the shy desire to discover it I know how to mean well and fuck it up anyway If only the sky would confess and the seeds grow The clock on the nightstand begged me to close my eyes and lose myself in sleep but is the day still night if you call it that? Is a stranger still friend if you call it that? Return to the Kentucky Collection.
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