Old Bones Lying In Yellow Dust

I awaken with languid eyes gazing at the passing dawn. Strange light rays hover over ancient graves Jestering- tormenting souls Where spindled wildweeds grow And sway over a dull domain, and Under clouds with nimble fingers accusing... pointing down. They pause to sit- Brittled, splintered, to take a breath Waiting to sweep unbright fields Of rye and corn. Now standing, they float away With the rays sighing in blustery winds, Gusting like torrents from the north Spilling thorns and stems Around the livestock- propped and tall Like sentries who do not know nor care. Horns lowered to eat what's left Grazing, tails swishing, numb to silverdrops And firebolts, blazing in the background. The old woman turns in her tomb, Facing downward- blind to the squalor above. A twitch of finger A thumb A toe Stretching, as the worms rest in soft shells Inside sallowed orbs. Then in a flick- a flash- Tumbleweeds hurry to leas now stitched In rusted cathedrals, wrestling with directions- Scurrying to settle in barbed wire, leaving Old bones in yellow dust.