A gourd bowl sits in the gravel.
Young men and women carrying tablets
to my door a thousand years ago
rattle the wooden gate and spill in
a handful of dry grain. Some pass on.
A few remain, chewing pencils,
thinking of willow catkins,
chokecherries, red maples, jackpines.
Wind blows from the eyelid of evening.
All night snow dusts the door,
covers the grain, empties the bowl.

© 2007 by  Karsten Piper. All rights reserved.