Nostos
It arrives with the dark syllables of thunder
rattling the panes, motes of rainmist
and a longing to return
to the summer we broke the ground open
with picks, smell of cedar in fresh loam,
and the baby chicks doomed
by the stare of our wild dog.
When it comes ripe as honeysuckle wine,
mesh jelly-bags in hand,
reeking of yeast and clover,
the mind circles like a buzzard
seeking carrion of old voices and faces,
rooms recall disappeared rooms, ground
once broken.
New ground. The soul must seek new earth
to turn.
In the backyard, there is place enough
to drive posts into the earth and lay wire
where the jays will perch
and watch for ripening tomatoes
to glean before the clouds blow rain
across the hill in early May, flooding the bare
and barren to bury the dead.