Over the saga that shapes us,
Bruises the land and with each other
We go short, bitten, aging.

The Fall grass gives up one color for another,
Gracious number full of thanks.
I spent the evening thinking of my father and mother.

The most beautiful thoughts I could muster
About time and their childhood
And the grandparents hanging around home.

That slim chance of you and me meeting.
Curled up for warmth as against each other and the far end
Where the animals are gathered.

A lot more could be said of food and warmth and
The shifting feet of ones once wild like us.
Defined as by circumstance rarely freed.

As by aspiration,
Restless, breathing, planning.