Some mornings, before it’s light, I think of the first hen down from her roost, standing silently like a ghost in the yard, unseeing, waiting, unsure, solemn, surprised, and a little confused. It’s almost as if she and I have both been pressed into service by an unseen hand, one if not wise, then bemused. So what’s left but to join her? Or maybe we should consider an exchange: she, to find daylight by way of these keys; I, to scratch for more seeds.
Our Old Farm Remembers Us
Certainly, our old farm remembers us.
We cared for it so well — the house, the yard, the trees.
I wonder, was it wrong of us to leave?
Was it cruel? It must be so.
If our old farm remembers us,
it must be so.
Songs and Letters, February 25, 2007
Another Song I Know, Cosmopsis Books, 2007
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