Nests empty, and days shorten.
Leaves have flown south or fallen,
but my feet are roots in the muddy yard,
hugged by quicksand, and all
the reasons to leave still feel at home
beneath the shower of a leaking roof.
I stay in the safety of local storms,
though rain from another world
passes through. I dare no forward
motion beyond the lean
of my empty mailbox.
Even if this road found a land
of clear springs and a cleared
building lot for my hands,
the splinters of my old home
would be lumber for the new.