“As for man, his days are as grass;
As a flower of the field, so he flourishes.
For the wind passes over it, and it is gone,
And the place thereof remembers it no more.” Psalm 103:15, 16
Every day there are fewer shingles — and more bare roof.
Every day there is less barn and more sky
It becomes clear to us that walls are also passing away,
A melancholy nod to the flowers of the field
Who spend their winters in barn-storage,
The wind having already passed over their flourishing.
There is merit,
(wisdom at least)
In the contemplation of
A barn-less field,
A me-less world:
“Teach us to number our days that we may gain a heart of wisdom.”
But Old Testament poets notwithstanding,
There will be a Second Wind,
Who will tease mortal hay back into clover, timothy, succulent greens;
Stir the dry bones;
Reconstitute my known frame, while that Living Wind whispers,
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