Haystacks - poem - Eric Maroney

Haystacks

When you are gone

There is not a voice

Only the peep of mice

In the empty silo.

The haystacks are sentinels

Lonely and mute.   

They guard the symmetry

Of the field. They hold

In the hollow of their palms

The promise of yesterday’s love.

Their sorrows are ours

They are stitches of gold

In the naked briars

Flush with the first spear of green.

The sky is a carpet of pitch

That no water can penetrate.

So we wash our hands with stones

Till they sink, heavy and low

To the bottom of the well.

I have no prayer to utter

To a haystack.  

I hold your hand.

I lift my eyes

And see traces of silver in pebbles

Traces of gold in the leaves

But silent.

All that is left is the hum

Of a riotous night, where sleep

Is no release, and dreams

Are waking shudders.

 

1-14-05 / 12-7-11