Season of Dust

theirs is a quiet kinship
with an extended hand
offering sustenance
throughout this season of dust

fingers deftly pour seed
suspend banquets in the air
beneath a black walnut tree,
bent and weeping for want of shade

a cushion of sunflower hulls
softens the fall of withered leaves,
mutes the groan of ground splitting apart

goldfinches appear suddenly
shattering this scene of decay

they arrange their saffron robes
tilt forward as if praying
gather thistle in their beaks,
black as their shining eyes

eyes that follow familiar movements
of the observer
who sits behind glass and thick masonry walls
where drought and hunger do not exist

as the sun dips low, they sing
of the memory of cool sanctuary

and they wait...

for balance to be struck
for the wheel of the season to turn
for Creation to restore itself
from this season of dust