Nature’s Gold by Dave Malone Smoke polkaed above the pines the night I burned my novel. You baked your old man’s heart in a fire, a blackened raisin. I buried a brother. You raised a daughter from the dead. Our losses spread out nature’s gold as bountiful as needles beneath Scotch pines lining our drive. The afternoon you showed me your disasters, Illinois farm field flowed into me and spun compasses into electromagnetic dystopia. What you can’t show me rises inside the cracks of a ginger harvest moon. Autumn solstice burns orange on silo and pumpkin on our farm. I wedge my foot inside the tractor with hay to cut before the frost predicted by summer katydid call. theMeadow 103
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