Carbon Dreams

The moon is milky white tonight.
It pours its light onto an inky black sky
and makes an almost day out of night.

I lean into the darkness,
straining for the one sound
that will break the silence.

Today, the farmer on Rte. 15
burned his blueberry field.
The black stubble he left behind
seems out of place
in that February landscape
and I wonder,
Why now?
What natural good
comes from carbon in winter?

Elsewhere,
a body waits
in an interrupted rhythm
of movement
and fluid motion,
of soft glances
and lips that smile and release,
of friction withheld
building heat
buying time.


There, too,
a harvest lies waiting,
dormant, but hopeful—

Carbon dreams.