Eskimo Snow - WHY?

Like Eskimo snow on unmanned crosses, all

Planted in threes

In a field for living trees

Are hummed as prayers in secret

And sung through speakers in rooms

For people to hear it

Even when I’m wasted and numb

With the words for good wine

On a philistine’s tongue

And I’m under something black

And thicker than a sheet for ghosts

Or the first feet of snow that old

That old clouds yield

On the crosses

On the chests of dead soldiers in a field

Then I’m

Then I’m still here

Bearing my watery fruits, if fruits at all

Then I’m still here

Barely understanding what truth that rarely calls

Then I’m still here

Bearing my watery fruits, if fruits at all

Then I’m still here

Barely understanding what truth that rarely calls