Wednesday, December 7, 2011

Haystacks - poem - Eric Maroney


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

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