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Dry Creek Farm,

©Steve Brown, 2006

It’s not in the frozen field, the sun low on the skyline,

glazed snow and golden rye stubble.

 

It’s not in the hawk soaring over fields

of pink mist before a blurred blue-gray horizon.

 

It’s not in the salmon shimmer of fog

knitted around the knees of the bluff.

 

Nor in lemon light licking

old clapboard on a house that has stood generations.

 

Neither the tea kettle, nor lacy white curtains,

not even the wrinkled hand reaching

for a handle smooth as obsidian.

 

No, it’s the slow settling weight

of will down to bedrock  

 

knowing light exists surely

as stone.

©Steve Brown, 2013