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Wind Off the Back of Cemetery Hill

March 21, 2019

These, the fingers that have picked blues, are rigid,

so slipped back inside to wind yarn in pocket, to warm.

Red plastic bucket is tucked into nest of legs,

Legs tucked into nest of tundra.

 

The wind is letting us know what it wants this year.

It’s whipping up the waters that swallow the shores.

 

It whistles past my ears and screams at my cheeks:

“Make peace with your brothers and sisters.”

“Start with your own walls.” 

 

It warns me again with a whisper through tiny leaves:

“I’ll keep whipping you just like the waters,”

I’ll wash away your houses before I let you be unkind.”

 

And so, with peace fingers warmed, 

Plastic bucket half full, I tell the wind I will: 

I’ll keep my ear close to the matted tundra 

That fills pails with berries and hurts underneath.

 

 

 

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