Sunday

Fly, morning light, from your sycamore escorts,
wash the slate clouds white and ignite
teeming leaves along the marionette willow limbs.

Soon enough, through the darkened barn door,
you'll swell the sweetened hay swaths
to scent our hewn cathedral,

but first, warm this wedge of turf,
put to plough and dug with dung,
ready to bear corn kernels.