In this acreage of life
mill awaits our hands at dawn
limbs thread the corn till dusk
every pint of blood at the threshing floor irrigates the home-fields children and a revue of bodies
render kindness to those of the household lurking by the field with sympathetic eyes, flip the soil, plant the seeds,
glean the grains, tend green leaves
set ablaze the crooked weeds,
stir the snare of the fowler
to set loose the prey,
for what a man sows he shall reap
slump to the reverbs of Celtic songs
toss tears from our cheeks like an Island
cringe when the axe splits through tree stumps,
pluck the dead stalks of flowers in the haze of winter,
let our hair fall at the sight of a blooming rose flower,
tie the woods for fire as we set heart towards home,
watch a flight of birds return to their nests
and the violent tides ebb
everything returns home after the hunt,
saving all the graces like coins for the other day.
At the edge of the night
The three folded stetzler no longer
does the trick of setting fire to this
lair of dust,
lowered pace,
hair tinted to a mass wool
knocked knees on slippery slopes
the shutters wound up too often
in frosty thistles
dogged calves dragging the feet
to summer,
whistling along to a owl’s cry
webbed in the sound of breaking branches I crawl and plunge atop a hill
breath rests heavy on long winded miles and pain accompanies every wince
stumbled into seasons,
before crawling into autumn
found a cleft in dusk to climb up the otherworld, entwined in the cluster of cinnamon years and ridges as tough as the walls of Thebes, folded arms in a slump of desires
a heavy sigh ushers in an endless walk
