A Walk Forestalled

Oh, you barbed wire
Hurry and rust.
Hold in your cow
Or kid now if you must,
But before I am dead,
To my blackest of dust,
Please will you expire?
Yes? Slowly combust;
Yours more to the red
In the spectrums of dust.
So what's this wish for:
Well, a wanderer’s need
Is not road-like; more
Like a grass prairie fire,
Wind-set in destination.
We neither pay heed
To silly strung wire
Pre- or post-oxidation.

Distraction

The spring sun thaws December snow,
Brings on the bin-yard mud. It plugs
My old truck’s nub-worn tire lugs.
The moment comes when we both know
That though it tries, it will not go.

I’m happy for the sunny day
Which carries on the warm breeze hope.
This year I’ll surely shape the slope
Of all my bin-yards so next May
I’ll need not curse a wasted day.