Believe My GrandmotherKen Rumble
Beg the inner drum to part, thin ice on the lake. The station mistress clicks her heels off by ten, the bunions – Bavaria on the left, three doors and the skeleton man. Manage the time between attacks, a no-handed stirrer. The left turn draws you back and over by the hillside – what a star, what a star, the way you by the chimney look at night and day so like an omen as near and far. Hat step, the monk’s test, there by four or the bone will be our reward, staring with its marrow eye upon the board. And where is the step ladder – these doggone days always underfoot – beggars and layabouts it’s hard to tell just what they need. Don your cloak against the fall. The snow among the cedar branch, speechless moon swing about the wake smooth and shattered. That chatter cold makes in the hunter in the snow seeking icy prey, stalks and shouts for shadows – an owl calls its mate. There is no color for that, for snow. Soon the walnuts will show their pig snouts. Voles know weather and when. This then is the creeping vine and the visitor climbing after honeysuckle. The fencing, fence post, hoot owl, there by the mailbox, the power line, the long leaf and Douglas pine, the trampoline, walnut grove, backhoe, and lime – take care now, now take, just take.
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