A. V. Koshy redux

Some unmarked day, on the way
the blue of the sky began fading
between us
Somewhere
the road crumbled into
wilderness
Not noticed
Somehow a finger reached out
No hand to take
hold of it
When the laughter broke out
it was lost in the wind
What was held once sacred store
strove but was flying away
a brown and white pigeon without
a home
and
whoever was being eulogized was never
whom one thought it should be
Whichever way the windmill's weather-vane turned
the windmill was outdated, had broken arms -
Don Quixote was all who there was
with no tilt left or even scarecrows
in the grain fields where the relics of love
slept, antiques
buried in the deep loam, like green school ribbons
that once had adorned rich, black hair
now torn and bereft



Don Quixote and the Windmill (two engravings) -- Gustave Doré