We have seen them
in the sky, in the trees,
among the fog
that rises from a winter earth
covered by snow
white on ice
like the Mississippi.
We have felt them
with our hands,
the sounds blamed on breath,
streets and houses
like steel pillars
next to a subway station,
shadows from darkened windows.
They are full, like pomegranates,
small seeds from the ground
that look like a heart
greeting a new child,
a small direction for a finger
to point out our flaws
nearly shown
from a wrinkled face.
We have told others of them,
their good work
and, like outstretched hands,
their lives naked
to amuse ourselves.
There is morning and night
to see through their eyes.
There are amusements
to be told, invented,
two historians that begin a game.
One may greet you
on the road to the city,
the other sits on a bridge
and waits to be asked
about his legacy,
that face with many
grains of distance.
Copyright © Tyler Farrell 2012
