The sun cracked its light
on a solitary piece of pinewood
drifting in a mirage, riverbank mud
stuck in its broken skin
filed smooth with sandpaper
wind. I hear it speak
the color of sadness, its bristle
cones parched like ancient
memories crouched in the sand
yet its branches sing
with arms stretched high to sky
in silent prayer. I can smell
their plea.
He went up to the house and started sweeping the porch and he heard the steaks searing in the pan and felt like a housewife, or a couple of old maids and he wanted to be alone again. “God damn.” He put the broom away and went and sat at the kitchen table and lit his cigar.