Vermont’s mountains are not triangles, 
kindergarten crayola markers.

Instead the deeply meditative masses,
landscapes of sleeping bodies,
are quiet enough for each moon.

The agriculture fields, their bed.

Each road is longer here,
don’t disturb the peaceful giants.
Fishing for a more glorious sunset 
around each twist of the braid. 

Filing their sweet corn,
brushing the fall leaves,
combing the sticky wheat

with silent fingers.