A Turning Part IV 

The daily bread, 
Given on this day,
Cast in poppies
And blooming blackberry corners,
Everything sprawled and covered.
Just over the hill, 
Nights feed on themselves:
Fickle contests of fading light
And crickets.
Here, the din of thrush,
Trickles of water,
And a last, hushing turn of leaves
On a vanishing breeze,
Where doors open to the old stories
Of dirt roads, long mornings and 
The easiness riding along.
One last whisper of rain,
Faint, barely promised,
Never seen.
That's it. 
The faithful tenancy of days has arrived.

Sam A. Flanagan