Madrigal

Her feet knows the path Seeing amongst stones Curled, the grass wet swathe And stars dry as bones Into night she walks Head laden, heart spilled Her prices for stalks Less than she is billed For mulch and tilling And the clouds too dry Cost her more spending The land makes her sigh But the cycle keeps In the wind she talks And murmur-less sleeps The toad neath the balks The fog unwinds day A barren tree shed Leaves where children play The sun on their head.