The Unrest
The wind rattled dry leaves in warning
then, steeling itself with iciness,
began drawing memories from the grave.
Dust devils grew and danced their torment
adorned with dry, brittle things
becoming prancing phantoms
that startled even wind
so that it bit at them,
sinking its teeth in
like a mother cat
bearing reluctant runt,
unloved, to water for drowning.
No one alive was there to see
and so was spared the bone deep shock
of air borne questions of
the still shivering dead,
dancing to the wailing of the banshee wind
on headstones and foot-worn paths
and the winter-burnt brown grass,
whispering in eternal tedium
the unrest of what they’d neglected,
and will now forever never rectify.
-- Tracy Bean
The wind rattled dry leaves in warning
then, steeling itself with iciness,
began drawing memories from the grave.
Dust devils grew and danced their torment
adorned with dry, brittle things
becoming prancing phantoms
that startled even wind
so that it bit at them,
sinking its teeth in
like a mother cat
bearing reluctant runt,
unloved, to water for drowning.
No one alive was there to see
and so was spared the bone deep shock
of air borne questions of
the still shivering dead,
dancing to the wailing of the banshee wind
on headstones and foot-worn paths
and the winter-burnt brown grass,
whispering in eternal tedium
the unrest of what they’d neglected,
and will now forever never rectify.
-- Tracy Bean
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