Poetry – Woodsmoke

It is on days like these,
when the trees stand still and haggard,
when the ground is brown fluttered
I can think of no better place than this old Earth.

The air bites and tingles,
the grass thinned,
as I stand in choking woodsmoke,
inhaling the beauty.

Wrapped tight and head bound,
we wander through open spaced boughs,
spotting nests
in filament stove light.
This cupboard is bare,
the holding pen full,
burgeoning green and flower heads,
waiting.