Gunnysacks cover the winter crop,

the root cellar dry and warm in its burrow;

outside the sea lifts in the driving wind,

the long arc of sand shaped and re-shaped

by the fierce hand that forms the air

and lifts the gulls in one motion.

A part of me wants to lay down

in the dust of potatoes,

the ripening odor of apples,

to sleep and wake

with the dreams of bear

and hunger of a new born.

I want to fall further than night

into the color behind stars,

the deep dark of space beyond all light

and let long months go by

with hard shelled squash and seed corn

while I nurture and dry my desire,

then like an Irish spud

send out long thin eyes

for the first sight of tomorrow.