Broad Beans in the Clay

Old rhymes, like bits of genes,
Look like junk as they float

Down the flash floods of all
The things folks find to say,

But don’t be fooled. They jump;
They wedge in gaps of plans.

They spin back. They block thought.
They can stop a head cold.

They can pile up in dreams
That leave self lost at dawn

When day glows dark and old,
And hail fills small, mowed lawns.

Time to plant what can’t be
Gained, sense from seeds of rain.