Beyond our open door
the field of straw has burned.
The face of dawn is looking wan;
a hoary breath is rising from the creek.
Through all our dreams and lore
we hope the dead have learned
a thing or two since they moved on
and never missed the things they used to seek.
And why this thought should rise
with morning and its ache
with morning and its mist and smoke
with morning and its preternatural doves
We ask, a race that dies,
we, that daily wake,
we that pray to God, and joke,
we that burn our fields, and plant our loves.
