Shrapnel
Pieces of the past
fly up, brittle
shrapnel wounding
from mines long buried
You, walking across the lot
from the barn to the house,
unmindful of my watching
premonition. The picture of you
Standing next to the log
church on the dirt road
in Eastern Oklahoma,
the hills behind you
Colored bright with
heedless blood of fall.
Your smile remembered
explodes again