Blue People

Scrolls of straw or men of peace waiting in the field as the light of day is met. Toss your shadows and whirl your air. Pick us apart as some of us falter. Others have long refrains of songs. Hallelujah, says the chorus. The straw is packed in bundles. We are food for thought as a truck piles us in for the journey. Home is across the river. Home is a way station in a darkened alley. Home has teary eyes. Home has colorful glass windows. Home sits quietly waiting. Straw men and crosses are greetings. Hope walks in the door and pulls off all the words in one continuous line.

Rather amazing spectacle seeing all the letters in each word joined together like a rope turned into a lasso. The rope whirling around catching something in its grasp.

Around noontime the sky held really large white puffy clouds. They taught me the names of those clouds back in grade school. But, no one said anything about what the rope captured. Perhaps shadows from plastic flowers or a bright yellow painting with people praying inside.

Everything begins to change places. The painting grows a long shadow. The plastic flowers feel the sun’s brightness touching them. Blue people holding onto hope. Trying to change places. Scrolls of straw and men of peace go to sleep and dream a different world.