He, with his hands tied
Rode wind and set sail in afternoon
Taking pockets of sliced mountain
Running streams of chilled water

He, stuffed on wilderness
Carved animals faces
Knifing features into memory
Piecing together childhoods

He, once stood on street corners
Before resting his bones on limestone
Begging for view, splayed before him like a wife
On speckled sheets, threading silken legs of scenery

He, drawn to edges, laid his ashes
To be carried into horizon and sunset
To saturate earth like the breath of
Green pastures and liquid hills

He, drifted upon land
Until he whittled himself into wind


S. S. Hicks




Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out /  Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s