Three Views of the Valley

Galloping Mongol hordes of ghostly riders,

Wombless mothers, dead loves, and wailing zeitgeisten Rush down the rock-strewn hills toward the lone house In the valley of the shadow.

Steeds stampeding with thunderous hooves Splashing through the blood of breast-sprung dreams,

Khan, my father, with open book against his heart.

Swooping me up from the quaking earth

And me without a tear to slake his tyrannous thirst.

Nobody to hear the sound of his valiant voice Or to read his grave words.

Nobody to hear his tree fall in the forest.

All is silence.

“Come to the table, your soup will be cold.”

They sit at the table in the lone house Sipping their soups.

He reads his book with his left hand holding the pages down And his right lifting the steamy spoon to his lips.

She reads the news and spoons the hot liquid blowing gently. Only silence.

A neighbor standing in his field Across the valley from the lone house Said he was a nice man.

Minded his own bees wax,

A little hard to get to know.

Never really shared a mess kit with us.

If you know what I mean.

Susurrating silences.