a poem by
The Color Of Wind
below the lovely distance,
above the bone thin and leafless branches,
night is soaking up the light.
the wind is the color of molasses.
there are lime eyed extra terrestrials
coming across the field. their ship
is anchored next to a barn.
it is november. a dog is barking.
my father once said, don't pretend,
wherever you turn, it's getting late.
time is a car wreck on the highway.
you are a night watchman. a security
below a banquet of stars, you stand
unrehearsed. come monday,
the sun will be a decade wiser.
when winter was a screw boring into
soft wood, I was a cleverly planted shrub.
uncertainty stutters through my veins.
I try to collect my thoughts but, they
scatter like dust on a windy afternoon.
still, if heaven let down its guard
and opened its gates, would all
the martyr's fly out with wings
as white as wind and Idaho?
I would, of course, dial 911.