Abandoned House
	
	Out in the grass, blades impress themselves
	on their neighbors, a solid mass holding tight
	to every lump and ridge, clothing soft dirt 
	in the rough, flashing green 
	vestments of ordinary time.
	Clouds fold over themselves, make knots 
	of water. Swifts funnel down 
	into a chimney, a black stream 
	against a black sky. 
	Water finally falls. 
	Each drop thick, unforgiving,
	hits and blows out
	in circles and ripples, 
	filling holes and hollows.
	Gray light weighs down
	on elm leaves
	just now bursting
	out of new twigs. 

	Pull open the folded embryos 
	gathered in groups in the elbows, 
	see the future growing there.
	Some of them fall, fail to thrive 
	and crack open against the hard roots,
	rest in the tight grass, 
	tiny biers holding up the brittle shells.
	

	Because This Man Turns The Soil
	
	I can smell the world on him, 
	thick as dust,
	when he comes home
	and kicks his boots off in the garage,
	lays his cigarettes on the freezer full of last year�s work. 

	All day he breaks the grip of frost
	and spills worms out, ties back the thick wrists
	of blueberry shrubs.

	Because this man turns the soil,
	I�ve learned to kneel on the green altar of faith
	and dig my fingers into the ground,
	to harvest what is, not what could be.

Bill Alton has been writing for nearly twenty-five years. His work has appeared in various venues including, The Red River Review, The Oklahoma Review, and Perigee. He earned both his BA and MFA from Pacific University in Forest Grove, Oregon where he continues to live with his wife and sons.