Not So Much on the Land as in the Wind

NOT SO MUCH ON THE LAND AS IN THE WIND / James Galvin Not so much on the land as in the wind, From where I stand the nearest tree is blue. The house is log and built to last. It has— Past the souls who tried to make a life here. One huge overshoe and a galaxy Of half moons gouged into linoleum Where someone's father tipped back in his chair To formulate plain thoughts and then to speak In counterpoint to the wind's sad undersong. He knew the wind was grinding his life away. Now roof nails bristle obscenely where shingles have flown, And the blown out panes all breathe astonishment. The leaning barn is only empty sort of. It harbors rows of cool and musty stalls. Dark stalls That haven't held a dreaming horse in years. I turn to leave, turn back to latch the gate— Odds on the past to outlast everything— I walk toward the tree to make it green. 22 · The Missouri Review ...