As a myth worthy of belief, the dusk
A last glittering in the marsh
where the wind has finally died
and night stretches out like a long body breathing
over the grassy water.
In Milwaukee this afternoon, an old woman
who had packed her only life in two plastic sacks
screamed, tears in her eyes,
when a strong gust swept her to the curb.
As she raced to gather belongings
I could not hear what she cried out
but I knew she cursed
that even this wind
would shove her sideways
into a small, knotted death.
I remember splitting logs in the mountains,
how the swing of the axe fell gradually true,
homing into the wood’s heart, speechless.
I remember stirring dead ashes after the campfire
went out, wishing I could speak some god’s name,
wanting to say to someone, anyone,
“Come home, it is night, we have nothing to fear.”