Many years after,
The sun idles westward
As marble stones recline
Across the gentle, sloping field.

Many years after,
One can still hear the eyelids
Of fawns as they graze
Next to their mothers.

They sense the bruising of light,
The closing up of the womb
As the young moon shares the sky

With the fading headress of the sun.
Beyond this sleeping place, a whitewashed
Farmhouse displays the grace

Of cotton dresses drying
On the clothesline. I stand alone
Feeling the warm wind graze

Across my eyelids. The young moon
Listens to the child in me
And whispers the inaudible light

Of muted shadows. I am straining
To hear her voice commingling
With the vespers of neighbors.

Many years after,
This indistinguishable hymn
Is possibly understood
As the sensing of closure.

Many years after,
I open my eyes and twilight
Drops a feather. The young moon
Listens where my mother rests.