spun gold and
i’m happy, as long as there’s hay
spread warm and wet
in our loft with
when booted open
lead us into
..then back to ladder’s bottom.
*considered working “haylofty heights” into the poem, but sometimes my dad jokes know their limits.
painting by Beverly Doyle – https://fineartamerica.com/featured/hay-loft-beverly-doyle.html