Third Pastoral

Take off your shoes where the light
thins out into flocks chasing pollen
mist a ways past the edge of the lake.

It will be full of dandelion billows
this time of year, or so I was told.

I heard there were picket-fences here
once; crows still keep watch, perched
like a shadow almost there,

hardly making a sound. You see train tracks
trail off every mile or so, turn around
to ask if there were ever houses here

where bleached branches are buried
in sod and the earth suddenly turns
tar-black on itself. With thistles stuck

to your dress, you walk a ways apart
and I tell you I saw a lake of flowers
here: the wind came and it was gone.


Aleksy Tarasenko-Struc