One Day, the Fine Dust Is Snow

The road will ice past the turn
Of the low sun in its mouth,

But it’s the course of the fall
That we think of as like death,

As we know death from this side,
But the years we know from both.

Once dawn’s breaks show how hills grow
Dark, leaves gone, twigs flocked with birds

That weren’t born here and weren’t meant
To die with the year, but might,

We start to turn poems to home
As if words could know the way.

Once I knew where your home was,
I knew I had lost my own.