Yesterday's Testimonies
by Richard Spuler
Yesterday's testimonies sleep in the shade
of the old backyard willow, hidden
in the tall green blades, round and gray
behind the blistered picket fence.
Three swallows overhead demur,
and the water runs from the spigot's
brim down the weathered pipe, trickles
into the crusted earth.
Open the gate.
The laughter of unlicensed afternoons moans
from the hinges. Suspend them now,
and listen where you are. Every wind
carries here, the pollen of
content and discontent.
You were this song…
A hand along the window, dust
flies and particles each moment
in descent. Write the wind.
Plant the flowers for them now,
the flowers that sing and split rocks.
Stand in the cusp of the shadows and breathe
the difference. The stones underfoot are
not stones, but shells. Press them
to your face and listen: through
the wetness in the midlands you
can hear the sands changing,
a thunder-tide on the Pacific.
volume 13(9)
May 1, 2009
This poem is copyright © 2009, Richard Spuler, all rights reserved.
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