Meditations on Doorways

In these hills the odor of cow dung

and sightings of low fences

and weather beaten barn ladders

and worn pine rungs —

At five o’clock sunup comes

And the hill farmer still bent from sleep

Carries an unhurried weariness in his gaze

Like sand that funnels in its hourglass—

Dying of fences, at each door closing

He stops

Touches a rusted door knob

Clawed by mornings.

The heat from the hill is small but burning.

Time holds and finishes his thoughts for him—

Wooden partitions of barns are born blind

To house a life—

They blister and glisten in early light

As he faces the rise of his dawn boundary,

Lighting a cigarette he traces the smoke

Around the smile of a fresh smell.