The Stop

The Stop

Sometime,

somewhere,

a simple breath

fell.

At present,

tender young

blades of grass

flicker

in 

whisper wind.

They guard

 bottoms of

fence posts

lining the way.

Split rail

fences

in wicked angles,

streak the drive

I drive.

Presently,

so quiet

in my head,

it rests

for me,

lets me be.

The crows

don’t crow,

they just stand there,

wing to wing

black eyes

unblinking,

staring from the dress line.

Shakes

of my hands

drop below

my flannel sleeves.

The crows

don’t care

that I am

where

I am.

The barn,

empty,

wooden cavern

today,

we are all empty,

but I’m content,

in vacancy.

Perfect

ensemble…

for the funeral.

Hayward 2006