Master Lost Poem by metamorphhh (aka jim crawford)

In the silent rustling of the evergrass,
the piquant shadows of old dogs run

under the dirt, searching for the boy
who whistled once, then stopped to

leave them to devices imprinted in the
peak behind guileless, puzzled eyes.

For now, forever, history wakes afresh
in the flaring nostrils of each morn's expectations,

though sleep has beckoned anciently, and hearts
have fallen silent in the snow. They wait.