tribute to tim murphy
For Tim Murphy
It comes to pass that Kronos turns
all flesh to clay or ash for urns,
that every beating heart adjourns
You weren’t exempt, you fan of Burns
with your red hair.
To win your keep from prairie soil
you bet your yearly farming toil
on thunderheads you hoped would roil
and shed their rain
on yield more dear than . . .
. . . . . . .
[ subscribers: login for full text ]