Don't Hang Up
       

Only my wife has my cell number.
Yet, October calls with lack of wind,
says drought, not rain, causes maples'
color change, and no news isn't good
news until dark skies bleed. Waiting
alone in a county of farmers, listening
to the roan mare mumble her sorrow,
borrows a day from a life. How many
days would we give for a shower
is a mute question louder than
crumbling leaves of soy and corn,
deeper in the heart than a bank account,
or breakfast made of scratch and gravy.

Such a fuss when so many have nothing.
On another note—rabbits, chipmunks,
red birds, and mockers sneak in and out
of my yard for water—recycled
plastic and tin containers hold
the communion that keeps life living.
How easy it is to become pagan
when cross, star and sickle moon
won't listen and Brahma,Vishnu
and Shiva play poker.

Our knowledge of creation,
self-centered and small.

So I listen to the wind like Thoreau.
What it tells trees
I pretend to understand
to make believe—
a definition of Faith.

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Copyright © 2017 Bill Brown All rights reserved
from Morning Window
Iris Press
Reprinted by Verse Daily® with permission