You wander in the fields before sundown
to calm what nerves you have left.
The blue birds are singing in the giant oaks,
and the sea-green sky shimmers
in fading sunlight.
The moon is a sickle, or rather, a fang.
You drink in the fresh country air,
though perhaps it makes you insane.
Go and ponder the past as you make your way
up this hill toward the future.
It seems a charade, a masquerade, just play-acting
in preparation for now. You’ve been busy
hollering at the winds in every direction
all your long life. Now listen for an answer.
The song of the blue birds ties bows in your mind,
gift-wrapping the places where memories
otherwise would remain. You have so much to live for.
Dreams cascade down the rocky river of time.
You wander these hills, alone.
There is no going back.
No comments:
Post a Comment