The Wind Blows

the ghost swings over
of dreams, no more below
but still and bottom landing
broken down and off the wheel
about the road where goats pass
and when they bleat, Jacob’s ladder
wrestling with the angel, shot dead
Lazarus from the tomb . . . spills out
The scroll’s telling tale, “he is dead”
flowers planted long ago
comes between you and me
in the dim moonlight a shaggy head
in this barn a boy
a girl with crows eyes
a nest for life
the drumming and dancing
to believe the sight
a moment of glowing rise
hard footed was the land
the old man now appears
fists like hammers

voices flutter like in a dream
throwing down the runes
setting on the morning
the hands of time
asking for the dish
a bowl for the proper
the name upon his lips
as death grows around him
the splash of cold

the son a reflection
across the plains
a fur of pitch

his hand upon the plow
trusting in the horse
moving the memories

into the unknown
once again
a new generation
as the fence posts tilt
and resist the wire
the wind blows