sometimes, in that moment
when night and day balance gently on the edge of a bowl
that is an upturned eye
hope rises inside, at first a whisper
then builds like a fire that finds purchase in the driest needles
rushes with great fervor
toward the next hungry bite.
my fear of death is not so much of dying
as leaving this home
the beams and bones crumble and shift with each hard frost
until a good jacking up
levels one’s perspective
and makes right the structure.
why not pack up all the old chipped dishes,
sort through phone bills, love letters,
detrus that reminds us that one time
we loved something
other than coffee and toast
and working furnaces.
in the driest summer
a whisper of moisture pushs
up and out from the hot earth
gathers, builds, streams down the hillside
toward the gristmill and those granite wheels
that wait to spin and churn the fat heads of grain
almost to dust.
a rising loaf of bread soothes me like
my grandmother’s strong hands
whose Irish roots lay
tangled with potatoes and grasses and thatch.
druid magicians, their secrets nearly lost
except for the magic that is baked into my bones.