Winter’s Arrow Bowed

by B. B. Wright

Crooked fingers steer ahead.

Another row he goes.

Spinal entrails trail behind,

like autumn’s earth before.

Dreams—long in tooth—

like swirling leaves scattered

in their fateful flight.

Each clouded breath’s opportunity

misspent words for blight.

Another row he goes.

Naked truths, fingers point.

Another row he goes.

Furrowed brow, windows cracked.

Another row he goes.

Leathered skin pierced sharply

by winter’s arrow bowed.

Turning down another row

his labor’s hopeful load;

hopeful next year’s seeds

and spring’s nurturing lead

will breathe bountiful crop

like toils long ago.

But… times have changed!

Faultless winds blow unchecked.

Another row he goes.

Landscapes wither in overflow,

greed’s bliss point’s undertow.

Another row he goes.

History’s hindsight useful tools,

not in future’s fold.

Imprisoned minds must unchain

before the shadowed Scythe

ravishes fields and swallows-up

DNA’s genealogical threaded might.

Another row we go?