Warren Falcon (04/23/52 - xxxx / Spartanburg, South Carolina, USA)

'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.