Shades Of Ivy

The billboards barely utter a word as I leave a swap meet now covered in snow
And follow the black steam rising from a locomotive past the prehensile brooding cliffs
Where a watercolor scarecrow surveys all till the percolating oil rigs draw me near to my home
By the fleabag cherry orchards where thanks to a system of used books and a moat
The sound of the wind shuffling my way will be a scavenger hunt that I won't have to answer.


  Ken L. Jones