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.