Spring dawn. On the horizon
a tattered cloud, softly burning.
Stretching wide, deep, the plowed
earth, a dead uncle’s legacy.

For you, turning forty has been
without awe. The push of years
gentle, insistent, drawing you back
to the starting place.

Fences and poles, furrow upon
furrow. A windscoured land that
is now your life. Stark simplicities
for which, with no regret, you
sold your books, packed your trunk,
left behind the clang of city.

Sunlight inches up the wooden steps.
Coffee in hand, you stand on
the unpainted porch, basking
in the hush, the glow,
gaze held by the pull of land.

April air thrills with promise.
Before the shimmer of day, rising,
before the anciency and wonder of
earthly geometry,

your being swells:
you too have a piece
of the continent.