for Laura M. Kaminski (Halima Ayuba) and Scott Thomas Outlar
They'll be gone before we know;
picked crops have shrivelled.
The sky is overcast like coffins -
there is relief - there is dismay,
and there are aerated words.
They'll be gone to be thankful,
to tell of the scythe and sickle,
of the story of every breath
laboured; of their beds warm
beneath cold sheets, of the arid
dusk whistling a dead breeze.
We shall each receive a barrow
to pile our sacks of intent - there
is bread - there is grains - fate
falls wet as rain; trimmed roses
casked and lowered. The chariot
will arrive on rusted wheels
under a clamouring sky; our body
as shaft where seeds didn't sow,
as a tunnel that made no journeys,
and house that no one visited.
When feathers tell the breeze
to find our feet, we will receive
a vision - there is light - there is
melody - our bones fleshed with
renewal; our skin, shining beacon.
First published in the Ekphrastic Challenge
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