In the hills, my heart breaks

Imagine a lake fringed with weeping 
willows, a string of rowboats
floating on brown water.

A windless day,
pine trees not yet torn
from the hillsides.

Imagine the open
faces of sunflowers, not yet
in the manner of omens.

One salted cracker,
one boiled egg on the plate.
The mouth creaking open like a door.

In the tin-roofed houses, widows
lighting the stove, forgetting
the water when it boils.

Give thanks for the whorls
in wood shaped like watchful eyes,
the whistle that comes as if

out of nowhere--- meaning 
it is time to eat or pray or bathe
or surrender again to silence.

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