The farm sleeps on.
And in a corner of the canvas the sky begins to lift its blue eyelid.

The farm sleeps on.
And in a corner of the canvas the sky begins to lift its blue eyelid.
No one told me I would reach
an age in which I seek out
birds, finding joy in gold dust
finches,….
To make music from a bone
that’s hollowed out and cut with stops
is a kind of resurrection.