A Question

Thunder, more felt than heard,

And crickets and distant bells,

Mountains that speak a language of clouds

And shadows that Lord over the world,

A bright day or mist and darkly grey.

What do you think they all say as they move,

real from real to real in a quick parade of change?

Billy Pilgrim’s Boots

They were handed down from my father’s father

and worn everyday

and slept in for fear of them being stolen in the night.

Actually, there was nothing to hand down except the thought

of a boot.

Crunching gravel and snow in winter and in spring

and tromping through mud in summer,

or slipping over fallen red, orange and yellow leaves in the

month before Halloween.

Walking on, ’round the circut of houses, I thought, “Its not far now,

it’s not far from here.”

I could see the green siding of the house from down the street, but no matter

how close I got, it was still not the right time/space zone

to call it home. The house was always under construction.

So I must trust in the wind,

the unpredictible wind.