Glade Farmhouse, Georgia
November 30, 2002; revised December 2015
The last November sunset
darkens to shadows
on the stubble horizon
when off a distant ridge, December
wind clears warmth
from a once promising day
and the heart of a hundred billion
suns smears cold
light across velvet silence.
A spare beauty bears the hint
of primal heat
through widening gulfs
to fallow souls rooted in lost time
waiting for winter
to spring new seed from sweet decline.
