Morning
hung on the wet city, Nashville’s electric streets hummed as we passed North to
Kentucky. Weary with the silence of a life ending the gray skies laid heavy,
like dreams of dying women wet with hope, a little hope where there seems to be
none.
Harvest
is over, the rain settles on hearts waiting turning, spinning the ripe sun into
a long after thought.
Peel
falls from fruit one by one seeds lie cradled then wait. Did we see or hear furrows
opening to the end of this season? Life’s moist earth readies her self for the
new crop some remain as some go, sleeping forever waiting to rise from the
bitter soil. Once I could have told you what wakes the empty night. Now I
wonder if she can’t have her dreams the way she wants them. A place of peace
and rest ready’s the land with soil dark and rich for seeds of thought, sprouts
of living spiritual meaning raining dreams on the cold wet streets of a city in
the south.
Before
we got through Kentucky she had died. Rain still washed the green, pounded the
afternoon into slow evening. Memories lie drowning in after thought, heaven was
thrown from the windshield as the fertile earth turned.
Ron Kempton
10/6/17