Red Warren’s Red Loam

What secrets pass within the briar patch?

The shameful pride of histories reflect

across the Tennessee farmyard where hatch

the fruitage of young life Spring resurrects.


Cold shovels dig beneath the packed red loam,

red hair over red dirt; is it the other

way around?  Go brood as the hearthstone

is scuffed by feet, you semi-blind star-lover.


Books say that minds never go home again,

our current sentiments divide us from

what we once thought, those buried childhood fears.

You look into your gnarled and aged-stained hands

and pull from entrails a curse for the downed sun

while telescoping the oscillating spheres.

-published in The Storyteller