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