The wet fields on the way to work,
carpeted in sunset,
await the returning geese.
A rainbow unmasks the clouds
as the grey warehouse roof steams
in the same rising sheen as the bay.
Long hours,
short days,
the breath itself a signal.
Our ancestors knew
a candle in the window
was more than a small flame.
They came in from the rain,
never imaging a night shift
in galoshes.
Meals on the run,
barely time for notes, kisses,
or lists.
This is the study.
The learning
door to door.
Daylight poets have their bench,
bundled and scarved
they slog and sled.
My comfort; my blanket,
my pillow, my bed, all a dream
I trust in You to wake.