Another moment of silence
spaced in the whir and clatter
of life’s production, of
what we could be yet—
a chance between chapters
to rewrite the script, choose
the road to our homeland.
Like dawn’s long pause
after the first good rain,
old grasses moldering—
when all the normal birds
sleep-in and quiet rises
from the damp, rich earth.
We try again and start over.
drycrikjournal 