Beyond / Joseph Enzweiler

My brother's ladder leans
to the smokehouse roof.
All morning he's been up there,
quiet in his work.

At last, when he calls to me,
"It feels like November now,"
the chilly wind seems to carry him off,
his shirt waving against the blue.

From the hill above the house
I look back to that world,
the paint shimmering red
in the level sun,
my brother's tiny movement
with his flag of a brush
swallowed by the sky.

From the hilltop, redbud and locust
rise into evening mist.
Above them stand the oaks,
still crimson, still full
and whispering.

Beyond, the clouds are blowing
westward and the holes
deep between them
where the stars fall through.

And beyond again, the other place
I would walk into, farther yet
till I would be wind and gone.
From a dark pane of glass,
a voice "Here I am.
Here I wait for you."

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