I did not count the hours of day
In the hot sun, submerged in tall grasses
Where the grasshopper drones
And the ants scurry
Unmeasured, the shadows
Still measure the turning of the world
Into the russet dusk
And the evening calls of the returning fowl
And cool breeze
I am gripped by old remembering
A haunting of a larger place
Aching loves, for which
I have no names
They are too much for me
Turning, I run on quick feet
Along that cracked and dusty trail
From a darkening world, now strange to me
I look for light spilled from open windows
I listen for the voices of my people
There, I will tell of the deeds of the day
And be small again, cradled in
The gentle forgetfulness
That is the solace of my kind