I Dreamed My Father Was Wading the River of Death
The moon was there—
languid cow eye.
The woodstove reeked
of dust and death
A windmill needed grease
and wind… was lonesome.
The garden, over-grown again
a spade forever rotten.
A shed that was once red
peeled and pleaded.
Split oaks were piled
waiting for their funeral fire.
My old man yelled—
his shadow laughed.
Somewhere a coyote dreamed
and padded the air.
-J.A. Stump
January 19, 2012
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