then the river ran dry.
The corn rotted
and the cotton burned.
Gun to head,
tired to the bone,
even half-dead,
somethings are still
worth keeping whole.
So we're not selling this year.
We'll harness the hurt,
because stubborn
outlives luck.
We'll just eat crow
and learn to grow,
because we're not selling this year.
Heart-broke,
rain-soaked,
grief choked,
somethings are still
full of love.
So we're not selling this year.
Frayed cliches
all clammed up
and put aside,
some times you just have to
swallow your fear.
The bottom line is
we're not selling this year.
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