Sun is down in its winter home

barely visible above naked branches,

the valley without rain

for the first time in weeks;

dry and bright the day opens

and I meet it, my worn places

flaking off like decayed skin,

beneath the roughage

something pink and new,

a baby born from an old man

like the miracle of Abraham,

child of my age coming forth

with words fully formed,

yearning for the milk of life

and bright green forest,

still wailing with hunger

after all these years.