Red-dirt browns, spring Greens,
or noise, fresh sounds of quiet, living things,
bend stubborn ways to usher in
a roaring silent winter
as skies and earth grow heavy and white with age.
Voices lose their place among expected things.
Limbs are lent to ground with intermittent groans
of oak and maple.
Names like colored leaves left over
from a borrowed time,
whose legacies are kept by faith,
and not distinction.
Heavens have now forced the sparsest clouds to flight.
In their place:
create a firmament
Four pillars of a wooden home, green once, and bright,
shake, as if it were unclothed tonight.
Brave pillars, cold assaults of ice withstanding,
in the face
of the subdued scratchings of my pen.
It is not terrible to winter off old leaves and sleep
until a Sound is sent to fetch and bathe us in the warm,
sweet-scented springs of waking
and lay us down to live inside a field
that blossoms summeringly.