A young boy in a desert trailer,
wishes inspiration will fall in him,
pitter, patter, like raindrops,
transforming into keytaps,
on the ancient yellow-screened word processor
that was his father's pride and joy.
The letters are angular, ancient, precise.
like gemstones that are opaque,
on the dumb surfaces of which
are carved crude words from dead languages.
Miles of moving wind cover the land
where the trailer sits, with the boy inside.
The human drama is tiny.
Paper turns yellow quickly.
People hope for something better.
The boy who once dreamed of gold,
will be overcome by mathematics and despair,
and a homesickness he doesn't understand.
It is autumn, and the leaves of gold,
fall whirling from the lonely trees.
No frost yet on the windows, just
a shiver in the breeze.
Now summer's blanket, thin and bare
hangs shredded in the sky
where winter, careless, loveless, fair,
runs endless, bright, and dark, and high.
But I forget where I am, and then
when winter comes the river floods,
the dark eyed deer disappear, and leave
the leaves, the rain, the ash, the blood.
I would like to call the World's Wind
from Heaven's vault, as we did when young,
but I fear no leaf will move, no tree
will turn when all my breath is gone.
The boy's feet grow tough from miles of road,
his ears attuned to the mumbling of the world,
But sometimes a man wakes up
and finds himself looking
he doesn't know what.
Copyright © Bleak Willow | Year Posted 2019