There’s a stump across the lane,
old and broad,
covered with moss like
freckles on a farm kid
Silas owned the stump,
his rough, stubby hands
and the farm he worked
alone
Silas sat on the stump
as the twilight came,
cool air expiring to calm
the day’s last heat
You go see Silas, go, go
ice pops after supper,
batons raced to the stump
where he’d wait
With his face
plowed red by the sun,
yellow-rusted smile,
buried white eyes, puppets
with parts in every story he told
The adventurer who found the jewels
from the clouds’ thick white mist
Corn Monster’s endless work
pushing stalks through the soil into the heat
Mystic mail-order raindrops
guaranteed to save any ragged thirsty farm
One night of the hundreds,
Silas was still,
hands rubbing
slow, rough circles
His voice flowed
soothing sweet,
poured out careful,
first of a new can
“God gave us this dusk,
the stories we tell,
laughter, happiness, peace.
He says we are His.
He shows us this sky.
He says in the stillness,
there’s nothing more lovely
than you.”
Silas stood up slow in his Mucks,
shoulders broad as the stump,
holding up his clothes
and his head
with his leaky white eyes
“There’s nothing…”
knees bent
boots stunk
“…more lovely than…”
reached over
mussed up
“…you.”
He turned
on short cannon legs,
marching smaller, smaller
until his light went out
The breeze shifted,
finding a place to rest,
going gently, silently home.
An ice pop—cherry!
Mother was there, sudden
As silent summer rain
Silas is dead
I ran
Through the grass
‘Cross the rocks
Through the frogs
I ran to the stump
Where Silas had sat
Where Silas had sat
I sat
As the ice pop bled down my hands,
sour and sweet, thick and red
on the tops of my feet
and the cold hurt my lips
and the dusk hurt my heart
and He showed us this sky
