The noon sun peaks around clouds

And paints my wrinkled face softly

As I sit on a tractor in the middle of a field

Engine off, the wind questions me in whispers

This morning was hard I softly mumble

But the wind carried my words away

Dried mud clings like armor to my skin

The land I worked already erasing me

And I know I’m not fit for this place

A sewing needle in one hand

A fishing line in another

I thread the eye carefully and

Poke mindlessly at the calluses in my palm

They no longer feel the pain

Numb to the time and effort spent alive

And I raise the needle to my lips

And I sew my own mouth shut

Because this will never be a place

For any kind of words