There is a blessed fidelity in things,
graceless things grow lovely with good uses. - John Tarrant
*
*
Expecting more rain.
Not yet light though 6 a.m.-
night still over the barn.
*
*
From the porch, high wind. 
The moon, a corner of it, 
rides comfortably in clouds.
*
*
Clouds moving over mountains, 
their night work -
some rain in the buckets.
*
*
Bestowing order, 
things feel their boundaries, 
robes of autumn rain.
*
*
Back to bed, 
just-dawning. 
Noises in these old walls -
mice search for food or string, 
bird stretching its wings.
*
*
Soon these things I must leave - 
wood smoke, frayed rope coil, 
finger prints on faded walls' wrong color.
*
*
Last flights -
on the sill 
scattered wings, 
musky corners' 
gently waving webs.
*
*
A fertile shelter.
Many nights I have wrestled here.
Some mornings have
broken into me like thunder. 
*
*
I have shed skin after skin.
These I leave behind.
Some warmth they may 
provide for the mice, 
rags for the moths to eat.