The Farm

The Farm

When fall comes to the hills

and the evening fills the valley

with the sounds of small things,

stars wink and dance

like fireflies

and the great

and the small become

indistinguishable

in the singular privacy

of woods

Then, the sky goes red

like the sun behind an eyelid

and I search the ways of my grandfather

covered by autumns gone

in the fallen leaves;

My path too, closes behind me,

under these wings

that flew for only a moment...

but not before I see him once more

watching another moment stretch into eternity

and stars dance in the long grass where dark

things move.