On a hill where Queen Anne’s Lace lay storm-tangled,
a squadron of crows cawed as if a crime had gone unseen.
A half-hearted wish to whistle twisted my lips into a frown.
Somewhere in my past the need to be understood showed up
like a father’s ghost, a ghost, whose predawn footsteps
still echoed with his early morning chores. I remembered
our preacher quoting a Bible verse over the phone
the night I called for solace. I was just a boy having
my first experience with death’s failure of words.
During another sleepless night, the jury was out,
and the judge fell asleep in his ink. Soon, rain.
I went outside to feel the cold drops hit my face.
Copyright (c) 2020 by Bill Brown. All rights reserved. Bill Brown is the author of 12 poetry collections. During the past 30 years, he has published hundreds of poems and articles in literary journals and anthologies. In 2011 the Tennessee Writers Alliance named him Tennessee Writer of the Year. He lives in Greenbrier.