If No One Speaks of Remarkable Things

At the still point

Of the turning world

If I forget the whorls on my fingers

Everything is a grave matter

I grow callous

I grow insensate

If nothing is a grave matter,

I’ve buried too many people

Alive and dead


If nobody speaks of

Remarkable things

Three generations back

Each of whom had whorls on their fingers

That brushed their fingers over the tops of wheat grass

Who had lost a father,a wife, a daughter,  a son, a grandchild


But remembered the whirl s on each of their fingers


If no one speaks of remarkable things


If I no longer speak of remarkable things

Of whirls on fingertips


I grow callous and insensate


Mr. Sandman

Bring sleep and stars

In the way winter comes