黑料不打烊


Love Poems: Curated by Chris Martin (Singing In Unison, Part 11)

Mar 12, 2025 - Apr 26, 2025

Many years ago I was alone in a house lost in thought looking down at a hay field in the Catskill mountains. I could see McCumber Farm, the distant Armstrong fields, and the steep silhouette of Dry Brook Ridge. An autumn breeze came in from the treetops, and as if in a dream - a man I knew appeared - slowly dragging a large wooden rowboat with a rope behind him through the tall grass. I recognized the old boat 鈥 now quite rotten 鈥 from my childhood. I watched transfixed as the bow cut through the dry grass, leaving a wake of flattened grass as it floated through the waving field.

At that moment I loved that boat and loved the circling turkey buzzards. I loved the dry naples yellow of the grass. I loved that man and the hum of a distant chainsaw. I even loved my own loneliness. I hurried to help old John Asher drag that boat on its way to the burn pile at the bottom of the field.



Many years ago I was alone in a house lost in thought looking down at a hay field in the Catskill mountains. I could see McCumber Farm, the distant Armstrong fields, and the steep silhouette of Dry Brook Ridge. An autumn breeze came in from the treetops, and as if in a dream - a man I knew appeared - slowly dragging a large wooden rowboat with a rope behind him through the tall grass. I recognized the old boat 鈥 now quite rotten 鈥 from my childhood. I watched transfixed as the bow cut through the dry grass, leaving a wake of flattened grass as it floated through the waving field.

At that moment I loved that boat and loved the circling turkey buzzards. I loved the dry naples yellow of the grass. I loved that man and the hum of a distant chainsaw. I even loved my own loneliness. I hurried to help old John Asher drag that boat on its way to the burn pile at the bottom of the field.



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