Let's Go Inside

The furrowed field sleeps
in the cold November rain,
stalks of weeds in the fencerow
crumple in decay, the rusty call
of a crow sweeps through
an empty sky,
my shivering breath clouds the air
protesting the absent-minded weather.

I say, bury the work in its old clothes,
let’s go inside to learn how fire lives
on top of ashes and watch shadows of light
leap to the windows.