i cannot walk; tied to a post,
grief grows stiff in
my arms, my legs,
splayed as a scarecrow.
dig up the fields, Lord.
why must i watch crows pick at the body,
eating seeds and shredding limbs? You are
tearing down Your work, Lord, and
hallowed be Your art.
what the eyes let in
and what You have placed before them:
rotten hands, railroads, constant rolling farms
and season after season's end--
i want to flex my fingers, Lord, pray at Your feet
but these days the limbs won't bow; you keep me
standing, Lord, on a fence post
watching endless fields churn; You tear them apart.
Summer's fires are what ready the earth.