Saturday, July 31, 2021

The Silver-Haired Man in Baker

The wind takes away what we say:
The stone path is dry, the field empty,
Distant rain clings in the sky.

The clouds take away what we see:
The sun underneath lights the joshua trees,
The creosote flails in the breeze.

The silence takes all that we hear:
Old ladies chuckle away the years,
Laborers share laughs, hiding tears.

The sun takes away what we touch:
Earth's forms dissolve in light and dust,
A burned-out building hangs like a crutch.

Ah but as the rain brings in the scent
The bitter sweetness recalls the misspent,
What was almost forgot: what we meant.