The Weavers

Wind, water, and beak

the weaver weaves,

but does not speak.

Water, wind, and back

plow turns over;

it does not retract.

Wind, water, and time

they smooth away

the pattern of crime.

I am tired of civilized people

telling me what is civilized

and what is not.

Their crimes look

very civilized to me.

Individual plots,

monuments, mausoleums

do not speak of what

wind and water have hidden

under the pattern

of grass and sand.

Atmosphere obscures the

tangled bones and revenants

of unmarked graves

as nests are unmade.

Looking for colorful glass

in the dendritic pattern

of runoff down to the boggy ground,

a body sees the rust of iron

objects discarded from farm

homesteads being slowly unmade

through discard and weather.

The wind is background noise

in early spring sun

looking for vitreous reflection

of manufacture being

unmade.

About johnsmithiiimxiii

John Smith, IIMXIII is the avatar of an award winning poet, artist, etc. who still lives in the Palouse country of the Pacific NW. He has not received much notice with his prose . . . but as his avatar, I hope that he keeps plugging along.

One response to “The Weavers”

  1. Ginger Johnson says :

    Awesome poem, awesome pictures!

    Like

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