i feel it as frost in my wrists, brittleness
like bent wind through scraping pines
it creeps up to the elbows, a slow ache;
embers in the brush, burned out on fallen leaves,
a mixture of old things, decayed branches
and stones covered in thin dirt.
looking high and low, i never saw
you enough; you are a history, a story
like old bark peeled from new wood;
trails of wisdom and words leaving
pathways through featureless terrain
where i grasped, but grabbed
* * *
i have moved away.
leaving the place that leaves me winded,
roiling through open tunnels
i am swept, Lord, taken high and low
by your hands, which have taken me over.
* * *
i cannot walk; tied to a post,
grief grows stiff in
my arms, my legs,
splayed as a scarecrow.
i would rather you
dig up the fields, Lord,
then have me sit still and complacent
watching crows pick at the body, eating seeds
and tearing limbs, but 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.