The wind blows like Winter's breath from the mouth of the graveyard
It is free from the smell of death or age
There is only the empty smell of air and forever;
the smell of nothing

The sky above me where I sit near the graveyard wall
is a dark canvas of night
I am tired of darkness
Dark nights, dark days, dark eyes
I voice my pleas, but Winter's shadow will not be moved

If I could I'd hold the sun by its long bright handle
and slash it across the sky
in fierce swaths of yellow and white
and return real day to the sky
basking like a spoiled lizard in its glare

Later when my eyes were tired
from blinking too often in the day's bright light
I'd pluck a cattail from the river
and dip it in a golden egg
paint a perfect sunset across the horizon
sketch the hills with smoke
and use cotton for the clouds
then watch as night comes slinking back
slowly across the sky

AcB 12.00