The Back Forty Replanted

First Pass

The field’s furrows turned like waves,

the broken earth rolled back on itself,

a house in the distance, smoke rising

from the chimney, a ghost hovering

low all during the late afternoon.

Ashes remember the hewn trees,

as does the coffin: their long history.

Hickory, oak, sweet gum, hackberry,

pine.  March drifts in the change of weather,

a waste of wind from the sea.

Replowed and Reseeded

The voice’s furrows turned like waves.

The still earth rolled back on itself,

a river in the distance, silence rising.

From the chimney, a stranger hovering

low all before the late afternoon.

Ashes remember the hewn trees,

as does the aria their long grief:

Hickory, oak, sweet gum, hackberry

pine. The old photograph.  Drifts in the change of weather.

A waste of wind.  From the sea.