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
This article appears in Pride in Full Stride.