by Nancy Hooper
Unaware of the wind or the weight
of the dust that will bury.
There will be no farewell
when the earth closes in. No fear
of the darkness surrounding.
The rain rains and the mud sucks.
Leaves skitter and catch in our ribs,
but we can not assume that much,
or feel to quiver underneath the touch.
What injustice? What inhumanity?
We do not ask, or long for our recovery,
or know that we were lost.
There are no remnants of these things.
Just a puzzle of bones,
and this song the wind whistles between.
But even this we do not know,
or anticipate the crumble beneath the crush,
or wonder that we smile so much.
Nancy Hooper lives and works in Ypsilanti, Michigan with her husband, Tim, and their cat, Avalanche. Her poetry has appeared in The MacGuffin literary journal, including her chapbook, “Thunder and Other Things”.