Backlit by the Beaver Moon
As truth fell on me softly
The Pioneer Woman had gone
Leaving me quietly, so as not to stir
Me sleeping
My bed a den
Of pillows and dreamers
The empty space
Left my mind to fill as the storehouse
For the coming winter
The winter of my life
I felt the loss
Before I knew
As scrips and scraps flowed through my hands
Into those of another craftier than I
Younger, too, as in springtime
Or even summer
Strong ones who carry wood
And water for the thirsty
My days show narrow
As the gray clouds layered behind
Branches laid bare
Look beyond November skies
~~Rachel Maher
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