Friday, January 31, 2020

Was This the Day?

She dared not follow the sound”

What feels rare, real, and detailed 
Should feel valuable, as well—
The cold, clear, empty desert

Sky bared of contrivances,
Barren of engine noises,
Barren of human voices—

Wet scents of sun melting snow.
The shifting, matted grasses
Surrounding the creaky oaks,

Surviving through subdued days
Of low light, the frigid nights.
Deer and small birds scraping dirt.

One, two hundred years ago,
Maybe boring. Boring still,
But hard to come by, these years.

A long pause, home to no one,
No roaring, no narrative.
Maybe an axe on the wind.

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