where the weeds remain low

at dawn, he sat
shackled in dreams, perusing
his grass, breathing
his crop, the rural watchmen.
varicose marked, a prisoner
to time, he waited for the Fall.
but, his descent
delayed, the seeds
were whole, the ground still wet.
so he tilled, awaiting
his turn, plowing
his fields, fighting for air.
at dusk, he sat
shackled in dreams, perusing
his grass, breathing
his crop, the pasture's antique.