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It's a myth they tell their grandchildren
the lightning bolt, the ill fated goat. . . back
when the farm was unsold, nanny's milk still
filled their morning glasses, there were teeth
in mouths now gummy with age, keeping rapt
young ears tuned below the rocking chairs now cloistered
in top-of-the-line-new-construction-housing-facilities-for-the-aged.
Lips smacking at the still fresh memory of flesh and bone --
their skin aches for the wet blue grass underfoot,
wind torn hair, and the shock of God's light
breaking the night's dark fast.
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