Legacy

Legacy Before he died, he worried about
the small stuff. Perhaps he bruised
a cloud with his sharp tongue,
or praised a fool with his leather throat.
Just enough of this belief breezed
like a whisper through a funeral song.

He worried about a legacy,
whether the cool slag of his tough years
might bare its teeth and tear
a hole in the moon. They say
angels, who carry balm for festering sores,
wrap the souls of the dying with their hair.

After he died, he slid down
the cheekbone of the moon, another tear
to hang among her stars.
A few hectic winds had blown
his seedlings through the air.
They might not flower for a hundred years.

N. Colwell Snell
Salt Lake City, UT
American Red Cross