The wind did not scatter the light on the tree.
It bent the branches on the boughs,
And swayed the leaves on the branches,
But the light remained.
The shoal The shoal across the field and beach lies soft and still,
Its image unbroken,
With no stories to tell of the day,
But many stories to tell of the seasons—
Too solemn to say aloud,
And too grand and sacred to leave behind.
In the field, the wheat bows,
Not from burden, but from age.
And there the tree still stands.
The field is amber and wild and still.
No one ever cuts it,
Because no one is here anymore.
But they were here. But they were here.
They walked up and down the dirt trail
Through the wild grass when it was green.
Even now, the dust seems touched by them,
But it only settles and waits under the amber.
The grass once warmed the soles
Of the people who walked it.
And only the dust on the ground still remembers.
But there is still the breath of the shoal, the breath of the shoal,
And the weight of an old coat hanging on the tree.
A boulder stands in the fog
Across the plains and beyond the beach,
And a blanket still sits on the amber.
A family once sat on the blanket under the tree
And watched the boulder on the shoal.
An old terrier ran across the field
And to the beach with a bone in his mouth.
They are not here now,
But they were not nothing—
So they are still here today.
There are gulls in the sky,
And a crack forms in the clouds.
But then, it closes,
And the gulls with it.
A kite from far away
Sails past the tree and over the shoal, the shoal,
And under the clouds as they close.
No one is sitting here in the field today,
But someone watches,
Even if the watcher is only a thought.
The water on the shoal the shoal is green and cloudy,
So it never showed faces,
But the faces were there anyway.
And ever still,
They remain here today.
