MAKER OF DAYS
( for Uncle Michael )


You will always be
oats

that smell spilling out of
a split sack

in an empty barn

a dance of dust motes
like a spell

trapping summer
within its crumbling walls.

You being you
whatever the weather

water sprung from ground
its gurgle of coldness

the chitter chatter of hens
gossiping among

obsolete
machinery

blue eaten with rust.

Dock leaves
next to nettles

calming the pain
far from the maddening stings

always your laughter
amongst the ordinary everyday

shipwreck of things
becoming &

un-becoming
themselves.

You the maker
of days

in the lost land
of summer.