Farmhouse door with
Windexed storm panes
opens into autumn
under heavens
anchored by indolent stars
forced to burn
as dusk bows to twilight.
The burn ignites my bones.
I accept a deep, cool breath,
and wait for your hand.

We walk under a quarter moon,
horses stirring –
deserted road cutting the corn fields
like a wound,
black against gold
oozing downhill.
Side ditches filled with
skunk cabbage, dandelion, trout lily –
air heavy with the scent
of newly mowed alfalfa.

The wheat shimmies,
corn stalks rustle
our footfall barely heard
as we approach the white pine
tree line
dusted by moonlight.
The fields feel sentient,
as though they comprehend
our passing shadows.

The black-and-white night,
like your illness,
is everywhere – hovering.
A brushed and styled wig,
incessant nausea, linen changes,
hydration, osmotic suppositories.

Short strolls in sharp air
blunt
chemo-induced menopause –
the earthy smell of marijuana
on our clothes.