Isle La Motte, Vermont
July 29, 2012
Down
at the Fisk farm,
four
Vermont yankees
play
the blues
to
polite applause
beside
the art barn
where
the well
behaved
sip unsweet
tea
and lemonade
to
wash down
deeply
chocolate pie
on
lawn chairs pulled
to
patchy shade
as
laid back bikers glide
slow
roads that wind past
fields
and cider
stands,
which operate on
honor
code, how goodness
goes
in honest
lands, where in the deep late
afternoon a humble man
in
holey jeans
strides
up the road
with
violin and soon
the
early evening
still
is gently filled
with
Air on a G String
as
maestro plays
Bach
on the beach
with
more passion
than
skill, much
like
most marriages,
which
get by on
grace
and guts
to
kinder days
like
Isle La Motte
its
summertime
ice
cider joy
distilled
from bitter
