The breath of the dead warms the seeds
Unswaddles their frozen hearts
And shivering with unsaid messages
It scatters the sting from their eyes
The seeds begin to see in a dark home
In the long nights they knock on the walls
A night breeze boils in the oil lamps –
The lanterns die in the morning
Is that why it’s so hard to sleep
After cheerful talks
Long after the whispers echo
And a prayer
When I return gleaming from the soft furrows
Where our frozen foreheads
And our full saddlebags rot.
Is that why some other smooth hand
Always
Waves from the high crowns of the trees
To the sky’s crispness