Crux

Here—

where clouds overhead

and crowds at your feet

thicken into an untimely

darkness—

you can’t tell

miracle from murder,

blessing from curse,

God from your enemy.

Here—

where vultures overhead

and priests at your feet

circle, waiting for a

body—

you can’t tell

mystery from mockery,

life from death,

wine from blood.

Here,

beams, bones,

paths, purposes,

swords and fingers

cross;

“X” marks the spot

where you hang,

and

all you know is

you are

here.

Grief

Stepping out for a walk,

I see the fog is back.

You never know when it will come,

when the clouds will settle heavily,

blocking out the sun

from the sky to the ground.

It rolls in softly.

Almost before you notice,

it permeates everything,

and the chill is beneath your skin.

When will it lift?

No one can say.

As it comes, it goes.

It always evaporates

after awhile.

The last particles of mist

sparkle as they dance

and sublimate in the sun.

Until then,

I’ll just have to walk

in it,

keeping the company

of the silhouettes

that appear, memory-like,

in the vapor.

Farmland in Winter

Fallen timbers

criss-cross like bones

protruding from shallow graves.

They were once barns,

sheds,

outlying buildings.

Among other things,
they kept

what the reaper brought.

Now,

for all of us who pass them

as we travel this rural highway,

they hold the future,

haunted

by snow that drifts ghost-like

through the empty fields

where they lie.