Saturday, October 20, 2012
Last waking in the old house, the boy watches
from an upstairs window, nodding
at the sky‘s surrender to dust from the harvest.
The restless world searches for an ending.
Congregations of blackbirds over stubble,
like mothers and fathers gleaning children
from the broken ground. Wind maims
the soft yellow trees, tearing the frail edges
of leaves, trying to sew the name of God.
He whispers his own name as if pulling a thread.
His breath fogs pale and cool on the glass,
warm on the back of his hand. It is day.