04/10/13It falls unaware of number, age or sway of crops left standing. It does not wait for the funeral tent nor see the lightness of green turn to earth-brown black. It falls as fast as knees are slow to bend for palms to take root and grow moans from the ground. It takes away as it falls -- walls over hands, the sound of bones before they float, eyes among stones, the red coat of leaves -- until the mud stops, the clouds break into gray. The sky, an off-white, unseen when the tent strained and held all the black that could not stand like crops that did not un-bend, un-shake or run out of falling grains. S.L. Corsua 04/09/13 * Hello, blog. Hello, poetry. I've missed you both. |