poem 450 of a poem a day for 2012

hunger in tattered sail cloth

we clutch what matters

when Winter’s coming

and the pantry is bare

we listen to the wind

we find moss

we curl in

we do our best   

to breathe in slow

elliptical cycles

every radio can hear

so when necessity

is throat-ing the air

we are less caught

in coal birthed exhaust

and more strung

to the cold hangs

of cirrus clouds

painting perfect chords

weather-vaning directions

scratching grooves

into collective memory

bending magnetic

needle heads

crackling

and humming

ghosts in the FM

know the tunes

of old songs

that everyone

remembers

as these

frequencies

play on

each of us

wanting

to join in

EJR ©