Message of Snow
Winter drops pale reminders
of dogwood blossoms,
wild cherry petals.
A snowy caul sculpts coffins
of fallen logs.
I cross the solitary trails of deer
in fields and along the wood line,
their hoof-dragged tracks declare
beauty not always a blessing.
Black crows glisten against silvered
tops of trees, seem worried their clay
feet may dissolve, consumed
in this brooding blizzard.
Even in this now-vacant orchard
of summer fruit, weeds
and thorns.
A capricious wind splits chards
of ice from pine boughs, prickling
shrouded ground, nails through
the perfect hands of Christ. The bones
of pines ache. Their needles sieve sounds
like whispering voices.
Turning toward a small light
in the valley, the moon’s white gaze
illuminates my half-hidden backtrack.
There will be no darkness tonight.
Quietness After the Noise
1.
Below the rim of ridges
at the edge of unplowed fields
two young owls torment a rabbit.
The rabbit’s flank squirts blood.
The rabbit squeals, the owls are delirious.
I am learning to see winter
as a quiet, red rose.
2.
An acorn plummets
into a small pond. Ringlets
scatter until tension shakes
the pond’s surface. I am stricken
with the fragility of clouds.
Insects shimmer
in muted light.
3.
I walk into fields for their bearing.
Evening slowly turns gold
and settles in haze.
If I stand still and listen,
I can hear
advancing shadows
utter my name.
4.
Cool rain fogs my face
and hair. Water drips
from every leaf,
mists rise up
from the ground.
When I step forward
wind finds me.
At the Battery Store on East Main
Leaning on the store front
awaiting morning handouts,
he said he’d been to Viet Nam.
Asked if I had been,
for some reason I said yes, and
I was here to buy a battery.
He called me Sir, the way he’d been raised.
I hated that humility, regretted my lie.
Said in Cambodia he had a mama-san, all the beer he wanted,
saw some bad shit.
I said I’d seen some bad shit.
He said, I killed women and children…and dogs.
Asked me, did I have any chickens? He had lotsa chickens
at home, grew up on a farm down around Macon.
Said the voices wouldn’t let him be –
everywhere the damn voices.
Then, the serum that made his eyes
thick and pale.
Bruce Majors lives in the country near the Tennessee River in East Tennessee. The solitary nature of this place fits well with his personality. He and his son raise registered black angus cattle and quarter horses. Majors writes mostly at his cabin surrounded by the wooded areas along the river. He has published in several literary Magazines and his book, The Fields of Owl Roost, was an Indie Excellence finalist in 2005
