Prospecting Long Shadows
  
    by Phillip Peters

The book of truth speaks slowly
in succinct syllables
concise words I don’t want to hear,
but can’t turn away from.
They flow over my body like
sunrise sunlight on a lonely beach,
long early shadows dance across the surf,
dark patterns mixing life with death.

No truth, no lies
I talk to my long dead mother,
as long as I am alive, you are.
She smiles you will always think of me,
I will always be here, waiting.
My eyes open, 
awake to the next long day
to the truth, full of lies

I wait on the prairie’s edge, grass trembles 
in the wind of her words.  Nothing right, nothing wrong.
Another morning licks the lobe of my ear,
whispers promises it can’t keep.
Day is not long enough to hold the truth,
only night can keep its promise. 
It’s not light or dark, life or death, something more, 
you need, but can’t have, words you can’t say.

In twilight everything is gray.
Turn a stone, tiny red ants explodes,
search for answers to questions.
they never thought to ask.
Words in the wind at Haystack Butte,
cast long late shadows, fall from my hand, 
yellow pages run away, across the stubbled field,
over rocks filled with promise… or nothing.