way down south
by the old black well
i heard a farm boy say:
the children came
and the children laughed
they never did ask
  to join us here
and they went upon their way.

in a grove
where the wood was dry
the old blue jay
 flew by
and he stole a dream
with the tip of his beak
and he watched the children cry.

now i know
that i've been told
the loam is in her eyes
and the barley wilts
and the engines still
and with guilt they
  grill me, hands all tied
and all the world sighs.

eleven houses, eleven hours
the sun and bluebells stay
and with every turning mile
the locusts pray
screaming children wade
      downstream
the soil burns, the sundial turns
and even the crocuses dream.

deep down south
in the branches' shade
a bee stabbed through my hair
and the air was mazy;
 it blew the horses wild
and the daydreams of an
              autumn child
stirred through the fields, a lazy
  mile, and when she flew through
the porch door again, i cried, i died
 i threw the reins aside,
                   i smiled.

 - "eleven eleven eleven," connelly barnes 2002-11-22