Nights like these I’m like a bluegrass song,
rolling twang that threatens to break apart, held
only by the fiddle, whose long stitch weaves
a low hill under a high moon, slouching even as it reaches
up toward the heavens.
It’s been said these songs can only look backwards
with voices that close around the heart-in-the-throat,
a lump stuck in sad pulse, each beat bracing
for the sweet red of homegrown tomatoes
but finding only dusty fields.
Tonight, under the weight of a cold stove and closed doors,
I call forth the once-was, the might-have, the what-could-have-been.
I gaze out the window, yearning to yawn forward and tumble toward
a road that winds a wheel within a wheel,
cleaving mud and gravel and bone and time,
spinning always homeward.
Photo by moominsean