There was green amid the brown
as the old man shrugged the rain
off his too-warm shoulders.
The sun looked over tired
through a blanket of gray
like a soft-light bulb.
Power lines hung from crosses
cut the hillside like a born-again
friend – not really a friend.
Somewhere a bird sang solo
native-tongued cawing sounds
it was high and lonesome.
Those soldiers of old, sepia
despite the light,
armed with hammer and sickle.
Mechanical creatures, all
rickety and roaring.
The pounding of smoke rising.
The graveyard of wood, green
seas of sustain.
Mists on the morning hang idly
Endlessly waving, as if
to say hello or farewell.
Cawing, a kind calling, for them.
That old silo
left standing
in the middle
of the field.
Does it feel
the cold air
down to its
crumbling?
I imagine it.
An iron plow
or a hand…
A dry well.
Not like her.
All flour &
prayers. All
crow’s feet.
Even faded
stones left.
I can hear
the songs.
She sat still
like a cloud
seatbelted
rocking chair
delirium
Forked hand
ruler marked
white scarf
her classroom
She called
his name
it was not
the sun
it was
memory.
The moon was there—
languid cow eye.
The woodstove reeked
of dust and death.
A windmill needed grease
and wind… was lonesome.
The garden, over-grown again
a spade forever rotten.
A shed that was once red
peeled and pleaded.
Split oaks were piled
waiting for their funeral fire.
My old man yelled—
his shadow laughed.
Somewhere a coyote dreamed
and padded the air.
