The earth floats stones to the surface in spring
to gawk at the moon and the stars and the sun
like skulls that are strewn in the Valley of Bones,
the sockets whistling with songs of the wind
that drift like the dreams of long-dead men
who still, in the cadences of silence, sing,
‘these, my bones, will rise again.’
Published in the November 10, 2017 issue: View Contents
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