For Arthur Henry Schultz, 1898-1961
| He poles a stem of rye before his face |
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wide as the number one, true as it is. |
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“But son, have I ever turned you from your place?” |
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“I am I, not we,” the younger says. |
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| The dove depends its wings upon its breast |
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then bends its head, as if to think on this |
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then falls upon the door-sill, dead. |
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Whose fault was this? |
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| The statement, or the question weighed amiss? |
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A word is a want with decoration; |
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a nod is a sword, unclassified; |
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without a sound a dove has died. |
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| The younger turns as though to turn the world; |
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the elder lays a hand upon his chest. |
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“It was I who made you bone and blood. |
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Don’t forget. I fed you of the best; |
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| Were you in need, my interest stayed; |
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if you would call, I left my place; |
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My day began when your sun fell, |
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my night was by your day erased. |
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| Whose is this ground beneath your feet? |
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Whose harvest shod you, set you walking straight? |
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And now you tell me – tell me to my face – |
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to work with me is your disgrace?” |
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| ~ |
| Guilt is an arrow will only pierce the good |
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while good already lives as best it can: |
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the younger stays, a boy, or leaves, a man. |
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“Father,” he shows his hands, “here’s blood: |
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| for every cell of me, a cell of you |
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your dust in which I sleep, your clothes I wear |
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your field-stone keep kept me secure; |
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from birth this was your child’s due |
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| his blood watering the fields you till |
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his blood trickling at your heels. |
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Now I make my first and one request: |
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stand aside,” he straightens. “Let me pass.” |
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| Youth and wind demand a destination |
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that bends around an indistinct horizon. |
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The old man steps away, a little older. |
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The door sighs to a rest against his shoulder. |
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| “Wait!” His blind hand fumbles in his vest |
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to find a coin, the smallest he can guess |
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and throws it in his son’s unyielding wake. |
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“That’s the last of me you’ll ever take.” |
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| The copper tumbles lifeless onto stone |
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a spiral ringing til its breath is gone; |
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the doorway holds the shadow of his boy, |
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the nothing but the rust of evening sky. |
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1993-2001 Minneapolis, Porto Alegre, Boston
A Farmer’s Gold by Emma @ DeviantArt.com
Copyright secured by Digiprove © 2015