The pain in my head is simply the wind trying to

                                                                                        spray

                            itself out of my ears     my eyes     my mouth     but they are so full

                                        of the blood of all the seasons before

                and behind     (that it can’t get out)     In the void of early

                evening     I can hear the creaking of trees stretching one last good one

                before bed     

                the mad buzz of flies     tasting the dust

                            thrown out over the day like a blanket

                                        by the tiny fingers of plows     sifting the soil like change in a pocket.

                I don't want to leave this place

                                 slow as time is here

                            that part of me that feels the seasons change

                as an itch in my skin     that can only be scratched

                            by the nails of the sun     wants to stay the same here.

              That part of me

                                        that knows     the whys of growing things

                that wisdom     trying to burst my skull

                            and stay     knows there’s truth here:     man

                                        was not meant to know

                                                    more than he can bare.

            

Copyright © C.L. Bledsoe, 2005. All Rights Reserved.