four winds bring the rain to dirt

Bone Marrow Mud

Four winds,
my children's voices,
whispering, howling,

passing through me

like a shiver
that clenches teeth.

I did not chew my own arm off to get away,

instead dismembered in the dark
where none of you could see,

left to tumble down a rabbit hole
and left to wonder

when will the rain begin
behind these four winds,
wash away the scars of a father
and make him whole again?

I find I still can't quite breath in the grey light
of these days.

Taste of tin in a mouth without an answer
but this promise kissed into a collapsing isobar;

I will not sleep until you bury me
and four winds bring the rain to dirt
in a soft patter at first, in a deluge at last,
turning wind and rain and dirt to bone marrow mud.

This blood and clay,
maybe,
the only connection
to our time here on earth.