There is poetry in the furrows of a field rent asunder,
and a wonder in the burrows of the small things’ furtive songs.
There is music in the lighting of a robin on a fencepost,
and it’s almost like a righting of an ancient set of wrongs.
There is rhythm in undoing all the work we thought was finished,
undiminished in the ruins like a gem when broken down.
There is legend in the silence of a story proven fiction,
a conviction like a violence that leaves fractures in the ground.
There is hope within the dying of a dream become a fetter,
inked-in letters slowly drying on the missive filed away.
And I listen of an evening to the light I cannot steal.
I will heal in the weaving of my name into the clay.