With the Wind

The sharp tips of tall grass consider her whisper
The soft voice of late daylight while exhausted trees bare their fruit
And their arms filled with a yawn and the breeze
Of a child blowing soap bubbles, floating, sighing, hoping
The trees filled with blood like sap
They lean with the growing blue grey of dusk
Leaning like a row boat touching the line between water and dry
With the leathery faces of dead medicine men
Mouths opening and closing in selfish prayer
Like a porch screen with a broken spring or mouths
Before and after church, but only if it was
Painted with white paint that chips and only one pane
Of stained glass, which should sparkle in the Sunday morning light
Like the water and the tall green and yellow grass
Where dragonflies send loud communications and crickets lay down
To love this summer to love this south
To love their fathers and mothers and birthday cakes and sweat
That you can only get waiting in line for ice cream
Or pulling someone close under Appalachian trees
And between smiling tall grass that laughs like seashells
Like a mother with index to her mouth
“Shhhh”