Soul Food

Every summer, and every winter

The last of the food hangs from the gallows

swinging in the breeze

a reminder to breathe

 

that summer comes to leave,

that wish’s fruits don’t grow on trees,

that this may be the last taste

and the scales can’t be weighed they’ve gone away

 

When the ground is reached, the soft true ground

The sky seems so much smaller

but it’s only up from here


-Ben

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Photography by b.

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