The Farm (revised)

THE FARM (REVISED)

When fall comes

and the hills turn inward,

evening settles in the valley

with the hush of small things.

Stars begin their old dance—

the flicker not so different

from fireflies,

or the breath of cattle

lifting and resting

in the last pasture light.

Here,

the great and the barely noticed

blend into the same hush—

a single quiet

where nothing demands

and everything speaks.

By now I know

to listen

with more than ears.

The sky reddens—

the sun behind an eyelid—

and I trace,

not with steps,

but with memory,

the slow turns of my grandfather,

his path

softened beneath

so many autumns.

I kneel now

without needing a reason.

The leaves

cover more than the trail.

They carry what stays.

Behind me,

my path closes,

leaf by leaf,

like wings that flew

just long enough.

But not before

I see him again,

standing just beyond the last row,

still watching

how a moment opens

into forever.

And the stars,

those patient fires,

go on dancing

in the long grass,

where old shadows move

but never leave.

SCOTT SIMPSON