Remember us, you not yet here.
Of the sparrow-colored fields of mid-November,
We the percievers, the sayers and rememberers;
Call us to mind,
Say the words on our name- –
They are our name,
Who breathed here in these underground cloud-darkened wind-uttered fields,
And spoke like you
Each object’s word.
Walking in crunching snow
Over frozen grass
And deeper, warmer Spring.
When bulbs sprout
Lilacs intoxicate and peonies face full
Perfumed sweet and with heaven’s feet
We walk the air above the ground,
But then awake.
We the percievers, sayers, and rememberers cannot escape
The blood-sod dream no Spring can bloom
In a sandy hell, a broken door, a murdered child’s room
We are lost to the furies
Of bearded sons killing for a different God.