Platypus
I COMFORT CROW JANE
Dear Jane,
No one
set the wheat fields ablaze. Look
toward night for the culprits. See
the pockmarks on the black-tar sky?
The stars,
numb from the silence of heaven
and tired of being so removed from us,
dislodged themselves and descended
to learn what all the fuss was here.
It was their curiosity ignited the fires
that scorched a path to the sea.
The burden
of days blows through our lives
like breath through a harmonica.
In the heart of every tree is a guitar
waiting for its craftsman.
The waters
part at our approach. Come. Walk.
Each new era cries for its own Moses.