Sunday, January 31, 2010

Something was Rustling in the Wheat Field

The moon was a fleeting,
still-born soul;
the quiet village kept, and
all seemed to be well...

The mothers had long since moved on, moved on
and villagers cared no more, no more,
and the river swept on, the minnows wiggled on discreetly
in the stream every night, as part of the scenery.

The cries that would never be heard were silenced,
the air that would never be breathed became cold;

the soul that wasn't there ascended into the sky
and began to rove with the invisible angels.

the village slept undisturbed, no longer aware,
but something was rustling in the wheat field.

The stars and the sky filled the allotted slot
as the dear child-- the moon's-- friends and foster family.

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