Winter’s Arrow Bowed

Winter’s Arrow Bowed

by B. B. Wright
pollution13 Factories
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?

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