for my mother 1929-2020
Already the moon pales, half-cast above fields, shifting, done.
The darkness that comes speaks, weaves half-words
of the timorous blown cottonwoods, conducts quiet bird sound,
the long sad cry of wind,
Of suburban dogs, of geese tilting toward silver water.
I stand half in it, in the half-light of barns,
Of remembered porches, half-voices of my mother and father,
speaking to me still