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.