The stink of cigars is only faded by the stench of manure
The banter of a seasoned farmer and his neighbor
They do not know I can hear every word they bequeath
Or perhaps they do, but know I cannot speak
They pick at me as if I am not here and alive
Seeding stories in the other man’s empty mind
Small talk of a love affair weeds in and out
But the meaningful words lie in tales of dirt and cows
Out of earshot from the wives, they linger
Pull at me, leaves fall between their fingers
My extremities are crushed beneath their feet
But I feel nothing
The sun wraps me in a blanket, but does not smother
Feeding me as a mother
Caring for me as a lover
I must show my gratitude somehow, some way
To her children, I gave
The gift of another day
A husk protects the gift of life from injury
Delicacy is a luxury
Shield a necessity
But I am not a shield for conversation
I serve as preservation
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