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Lexington Poetry Month

Brown County


This is where the roots are
for a city transplant, 
bitter immigrant
at 5 on the farm.
There’s nothing to do.
Wildflowers  wave
in pony pasture paradise.
Tadpoles behind glass
swim in circles.
Kitten races amuse
in the hayloft.
Bike tires bump on gravel.
Fishing at the pond,
woody walks,
creeking and catching frogs
filled up days.
Country crafted deep love
it takes a convert 
45 years to realize.

4 responses to “Brown County”

  1. Dennis Preston says:

    This poem brought back memories. I grew up in the country. We did all sorts of things for entertainment.

  2. Steve Cummings says:

    Rachel, I really like this one, even with a cat in it

    (Usually I boycott cat poems)

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