A low sun rinses daylight
from skies paled by December,
the placid crunch of leaves
echo beneath my slow steps
in the late afternoon coppice
suffused by dark hazel light
as thin frost and traces of snow
pinch the air, whisper of winter.
From the house, a smoky scent
of ash and hickory exhaled
from the chimney's long neck
lingers below the treetops
then rises to greet an early moon.
I bend, grasp a handful of soil
still moist from cool autumn rains
and think of the raindrops,
their weatherlong journey here-
the countless storms in city skies,
lonely deserts never conquered,
erratic waves of unfamiliar seas-
finally falling to rest, absorbed
within this refuge of solid earth.
As the vanishing sun shepherds dusk
between the trees, lean shadows
evanesce in the velvet of nightfall.
Silent, immersed in the tangible nexus
that unites this still ground, my life-
I breathe, at last, the poetry of home.