I walked the fields with my father every year

learned the rise and fall of hills and fences

where the streams and rain would run

I knew the houses and the barns

the stories of who built them and burned them

why the one small cabin stood alone

I sat in warm kitchens with elderly neighbors

listened to their yarning of who what and where

marked their passing when they died and mourned

yet I knew these stories would die with me

though grafted into my very core

I’ve walked too lightly to leave much behind

only a few words collecting dust on the table

stark against a hiemal sky

moving slightly to whisper in the chill

words pulled up from roots almost dead

given only to the crows

whatever stories the fell birds fashion

fantasies of bark and pith and crawling things

are their concern and theirs alone

neither the branch upon which they sit

nor the tree of that branch

give regard to such things

the gift once given is in the wind

not the close quarters at the bar

the small confinement of the car

not the dinner crowd shoppers in a rush

no I know it happened thus

when I ventured outside the basement door

alone in the vastness of the cold morning air

overhead there flew one lone crow

black with a screech and a definite sly mien

who dropped a virus right into my path

my gifts were unacceptable it seems

and do you say “this is home”

placing your hand upon the door

so that it opens into the very room

where you have somehow left your heart

careless on the windowsill

or behind a lamp upon that table

it collects dust like every objet petit a

gets chipped edges and scrapes

will you leave it when you go

nothing new to bring to the change

one day to the other then a different year

this arbitrary marker has no magic

affects not the seasons nor the sun the moon

it drives the senseless drivers of modern life

endless regulations that humans impose

nature has its own time unconstrained by foolish decree

so do I