I settle into the tough elements
on my land: cold wind,
rain, slant-wise and hard.
I am visited by shadows
crossing over the fields
with their angry crops and wildflowers
struggling for prominence,
bristling over the horizon
like stubble on a man. Elsewhere,
rifling through leaves of sunlight
or standing resolute on a bank of sand,
you set up an echo as you shout my name.
But here the wind devours all outside voices;
too soon, they are consigned to memory,
disturbing my flushes of rest and waking.
My home has one room that alters
with the light. Harsh angles are softened
by the burnished sunrise, when it is still.
I'll light an oil stove through the winter.
The rain comes all day,
animals in a steady drove. On the porch,
sheltering in my coat, I summon you
from the pockets of grey air overhead.
It's as though you're talking
but the talking is within my skull.
It's as though I see you
but you're an eddy in the cloud,
like a horse that's shed its harness,
blustering, lyrical then gone.
