Where once was prairie,
oaks, moon rising over long horizon,

now in the broken window,
damp air loosens flecks of mortar,

sand crumbles off the ledge. Here,
past years, past decades I can count,

past hopeful nights,
falling stars broke, touched down

where now only a breeze wafts,
vague, uncloistered.

It is today for the smallest creatures
to worship here, to crawl, to fly,

to birth over years, over decades,
over hopeful nights: first, flecks,

then sand, then broken brick,
and some night far off, prairie,

where the moon will once again
be held by wide-armed oak.