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Fields in the Snowy
Silence
by Temple Cone
Beside a road in
Wisconsin, ghost horses
leap in snow,
Their tail hairs blown
into a garland about
barbed wire.
Only a forgotten
language could describe
their loneliness.
Old Viking ships course
along the tides of our
veins.
They have seen ocean
waves splinter into
ice. But a far light
Summons them away from
the drowning loneliness.
The river wears away the
banks that make it a
river.
The mountains lower.
Deserts shift their
borders, like dogs
Inching toward the
master’s feet to ward
off loneliness.
After a hundred thousand
years, the dust of out
bones
Won’t even be dust, so
why worry about the
soaking rain?
Why not dance as the
lightning shatters our
loneliness?
Still, I should miss
curls of lichen under my
fingertips,
The smooth crater of a
horse’s nostril, the
odor of pine resin.
I
should miss seeing hares
limp through winter’s
loneliness.
Temple, it’s time to
draw up the pail from
the deep well
And water the gardens.
Sunlight will abrade the
dark chill,
Though we’ll never be
rid of blossoms hued
with loneliness. |
