Leaf bed, bower, belly to belly with earth and rock
where I’ll sleep, dreaming under the waxing moon of
some earthy nursery, scythed beans composting in quilted
hummocks that steam when the first cold bites down and
puts the drowsy bees up for the long winter night as I
far past midnight watch the hard-shell gourds sprouting,
cotyledon catching starlight in this slowest dance.
Stony slough, burrow, face to face with the pavéed night
where I’ll rest, musing in half-light under quarter moon
on this hard bed of solitude, my bones a creaking mattress
for the thin blanket of my thoughts. But how fine to feel
every ache in that hidden calcium rack and know my stone
pillow, like Jacob’s, echoes the essential mineral me.