Offer your usual posy of goatheads. Proffer
sharp garlands of thistle & Incas' thin down;
of squash bugs strung on blighted stems; send

back necklaced every reeking pearl I crushed,

each egg cluster that I scraped away with knife
or twig or thumbnail. Wake me sweat-laced
from a dream of hidden stables: the gentle foals

atremble, stem-legged, long-neglected. Dear
drought our summer's corn was overrun again
with weed & cheat; the bitter zinnias fell to bits.

Dear yearlings our harvest is lattice & husk.