Stir the pot she commands
From the milk that will brown
As a grass wind gathers above
it takes a lonely shake down.

Stir
He’ll drive twenty odd sheep
from sun shy in the willow
a lone mare that
he rides rides
on long punctured ground.

Stir
an ember that lives as a ghost on cold iron
A mouse of attic soul
that no longer hides,
Stir
their toes pointing heavenward
in dreams and salvation
no
deep hearted well
has ever gone dry.

Stir
The heart of remembrance
Meaning this wind in this winter
Is the child who left them
(is the child who stayed)
and the life that resumes
is a clock that they live by, faceless
and humming through
numberless days.