What’s Been Done

I’m afraid of what’s been done
to all the others in the past.
They’ve tried their best to keep
me clear on all the stories.
Burning the last tree on the hillside,
a vulture watches closely
how the flames spread up the bark
and to the leaves.
I’m taken back to where I am
lost in the snow up to my knees.
Walking home through filtered light
the cars around are covered up with ice.
The fingers doge the falling blades
but still they come apart with every slice.
A woman strolling by tells the poor kid
with the harmonica to play.
The whole town wanders to the square
and with that single force of music
there is weight behind the dawning
of the day.

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