When the leaves are swept away at night
and the chill cleaves to me,
I am reminded that I am descended
from those who worked the land.
tilled soil – tossed stone
to harvest, afford a life of
growing and yearning, splitting
and churning a song of origins
as a lantern tilted
sheds light on enclosed spaces
of circumstance. Places where poems
are seen, but not written.
Tuneful sounds once heard in the labors
of daylight, lulled by passing clouds
and mute when night comes on. Dirt is rinsed
from beneath fingernails and sleep arrives early
with a crisp quilt. Night whispers
it’s own beginning and the wind tosses aside
that which grips me.
Taps and Ratamacues 
I like the way “song of origins” (brilliant turn of phrase by the way) repeats like a refrain and the parallels you draw between your famer ancestors and you, the poet. 🙂
Thanks. The parallels are there.
Being raised on a farm/ranch, I can relate your stirring words. So nostalgic and calming . . . it brought a smile to my face and a yearning in my heart for times long gone.
Thank you Mary (or is it Cathy?) I’m glad it resonated.
I answer to either, but family and friends call me Cathy. 🙂