Rounded Winds

Rounded Winds

(“Search me, God, and know my heart; put me to the test and know my anxious thoughts.” Psalm 139:23)

I took the journey willingly
(well, at first).
I had no idea what the yard would look like
once the light of day revealed the rubbish
in the wake of last night’s swift and rounded winds.

But like I said, I volunteered eagerly.
The first days were Californian Spring
and warmed from there to summer’s late nights
laughing at the same stories we heard every year.
We had no idea what shape the stories would take
further on down the road. We were more naïve than
bold.

I would go home elated and exhausted, the words
and pictures whirling through my mind.
I might wake up if the thunder roared or sleep through
the lightning storm that left the city looking like
a homeless dog.

After the winds rushed through, dislodging
tool sheds and tossing fences aside, the morning
was a mess and my mind was no better. I needed
something to show me the difference between what
was kept and what was swept aside. Every neighbor
had the same questions and wondered whether we could
tell the same stories we had the night before.

We worked in the light of morning toward the afternoon;
we replaced the rubble sooner than we expected. We
were ready to close our eyes near midnight
in peace.

Cottonwood Fences

 

Cottonwood Fences

(“…they rounded up entire communities, to hand them over…” Amos 1:6b)

And now, with everything compressed on the back of the
weekly
garbage trucks,
there is more space for storage.
But why do we lasso entire circles who could have
played in the fields on their own
and put them between stainless steel and
wood slat fences alone?

I would prefer a carousel,
I would prefer a serenade,
a glass of lemonade made by the
brother and sister around the corner.
I would prefer the tales they tell.

And now, with every border crossing open season for
daily
bounty hunters,
there is less space for the high bridge.
So why do we herd them and burn our naked brands
into their sun-thatched ribs
and prod them between cornstalks and
scarecrows back again?

I would prefer a round-dance,
I would prefer a folk ballad,
a cup of corn soup made by the
sweaty brows of mothers and sons in from the fields.
I would prefer their invitation to dinner.

I’ve stopped shouting in the canyons that
no longer echo. It’s time to wake up everyone,
let everyone breathe. Or are you paying admission
now
to hand out just a
few days of freedom?

Once you colonize the land,
what will you do with the firsts who
walked it before
you ever erected your cabins with
cottonwood fences.