by Chris Freifeld
If she was backed into a corner,
it was a lofty one.
I heard the rafters ringing
when she announced her race was run.
My heart was with the harridans
whose time is yet to come. The nags
who pulled a stubborn plow through
stone embedded fields. How fertile
is the hard earth now, turning
with the seasons, knowing
when to yield.
Chris Freifeld lives in the U.S.A. where sanity doesn't grow on trees.
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