by DL Pravda
a forty-foot double-trunk cottonwood grows out the window of the barn. garage doors gone. rusty tin roof cracked, patched and leaning weird. framing hangs from window misnomers. at some point, a barn loses its meaning. rowboat in a beaming buttercup field as if light sprouts from underground. honeysuckle around the transom. six-foot pine through the hull. gunwales covered in moss. ain't seen water in years. somehow, two giant oaks engrossed in vines and worshipping weeds turn the far forgotten farmhouse into a monopoly hotel in a box in the open attic. a black vulture suns atop the south chimney. only a long-dark hearth hopes for a sweep, spark and the reincarnation of wild flames. this may no longer be a farm. soon this will be a tongue no one speaks. the confident cottonwood flowering white will not be stopped until she is.
Serving seven typewriters and nine guitars, DL Pravda tries to preserve the remains of nature and rurality. The winner of the 2019 Dogfish Head Poetry Prize for his book, Normal They Napalm the Cottonfields, Pravda’s poems have recently appeared in Bottom Shelf Whiskey, The Meadow, Poetry Quarterly, and Rockvale Review. DL Pravda is not yet a farmer.