Our Fathers’ House

A vision, they pop up ahead of us on the horizon,
these sheets of red flowers blowing, rippling waves,
like huge blood red swathes of flowing fabric,
how they’ll strike us. surprised with each random current turn,
pushed by this wind that seems to come from out of nowhere
to freeze us, this geometric house chilling scene of the dead,
and we stand waiting there, watching for the next tidal turn
to sweep, light or heavy flowing, either one catching us up,
the last a temporal sign of ghosts now gone before,
the next one reaching out for those to be ushered in.
Today we drive away, leaving them behind, though we’ll return.