Eric A. Weil – Two Poems

Three Silos

We live in utter flatness.
I notice the cuts, ditches
that drain fields of cotton
and corn stretching sunward
like supplicants. The ditches slice
straight across the soil as if a giant
samurai had studied plane geometry.
Where the road tees to town and away,
three ivy-covered silos stand
like sisters in green summer dresses
waiting for their soldier-boys
to return from overseas.


Toward Peace

Purple martins swoop
across the river
on a September evening,
undulating, like a school
of mid-air bait-fish,
heading to winter homes
somewhere in South America.
We are given less than a minute
to admire the precision
of their flight, wings
fluttering, fluttering
like our fragile hopes
of their return
in a spring of peace.