Warm, non-weather;
Feeding trough of old ideas
Soundly empty of heart, of touch;
God’s given grace to read my life
With a bovine nod and downward stare.

Pronged hands folding through dust
Picking, turning, searching
Eyes waiting to receive a light,
A darkness
A familiar sign of despair

Ground of beauty
Freed from choice
My home is shadows and heat, and dirt.