| Author | Message | ||
| M
Board Administrator Username: mjm Post Number: 3287 Registered: 11-1998 |
Honorable Mention Driving, Good Friday Jim Doss Each season I feel blood-ties pull me south where Jefferson’s dream of a new world wine died in the gnarled fingers of diseased vines. There the farmers hear God’s voice fall like drouth from blue mountains as Job’s suffering spreads across this landscape. In hardpan graveyards, my last name locates its ultimate guard in crumbling stone and bowed wooden homesteads. Only devout Baptists are buried here in varying degrees of Christ-madness, but each believed the soul was seed undressed as flesh and bone are shed in atmosphere. Now I dream of them splitting furrowed brows like chrysalises made of aged earth. Newly formed for an endless harvest of dearth, they greet me toiling under heaven’s plow. |
