And Still And Still

I am the unfortunate child of quiet skies.

A child of empty winds, bringing nothing.
Though sometimes, in the evening,
the dry trees along the road will
silhouette against the draining sky,
and it seems the horizon is cracking open

The same sun beats rhythmless on the same ground.

Father Torres says the only water we need
doesn’t come from the sky
that the crickets do fine
because they are patient.

I am the quiet child of an unfortunate town,
but I remember how we used to be.
How the people used to spill their stories into the night
before they bittered like their planted seeds.

And when the church bell finally cracked in the sun
it, too, was quiet

Father Torres says from dust we came
and to dust we shall return,
but we know better,
that we never left the dust.

Far away,
the air waves thickly back,
far away.
And the hills behind squirm in the heat.

We are a town of unfortunate quiet,
though I remember how the people used to talk.
How full and eager these hushed voices were,
like hard times would never come

The night would murmur us to bed,
but the wind gets lost now
in the seams of hardened earth

Father Torres says the only water he needs
is his fire water,
that the crickets would drink it if they could,
that it burns a dry mind clear

He says new life comes only from cinder,
that stillness is the death of a man

And that when redhead September comes
The far away hills will settle and cool

That next year will be better

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