Winter Harvest

 

After snow melt we notice

how the meadow

outside our bedroom window

has grown uneven rows of stones,

some large as pumpkins,

and pushed new born boulders

up through the icy crust

in round rugged monoliths

 

We ask, “When will this end,

this ever changing strata,

when will we know a landscape

we can say is certain?”

 

It’s the same question, we suspect,

one generation after another,

and rub our legs and feet together

in places the skin is most tender,

finally able to cuddle away fear

in this mix of earth’s ova,

its rocks, ores and magma

 

For this moment with our eyes

we hold each other’s faces fast,

for even they are changing