Geese line flying
low under a half moon,
copper sun paving
the west road.
I’m hours, a lifetime,
from your side of the street,
perspective a weather vane
on a wind blown barn.
Safe, in your arms,
is the artichoke heart,
the table set in reflective glass.
Cold water pours from the ocean
on the burning forest
of daughters known and
daughters lost,
a son’s boots sort the path.
An afternoon star claims
the early dark of the season,
branches prepare to bare
the burden of falling life.
Unless the squeal of children
echoes our prayer,
any vote of confidence
is just a road sign, torn.
