In lemon-colored photographs
the wind blows whispers of wheat
through my ancestor’s hair
Before the rain
shoes untie themselves
and run from the children
that inhabited them

All is windless and sky
There is a roaring in the air
that chases our lives
into backyard shelters
while Eisenhower calms
the static air waves from a hospital bed

In the streets scarecrows
have lost their shadows
I see them make their way
to the next day
folding into Dali images
or the shadows of unread letters
trembling in the hands of winter trees