Lights, Taps, Limbs

The still of an out-of-the-way place,
Still, but where the odd soul’s still at work,
There to haul out trash, fix a bent fence,

Not the still of the pure, of the saint,
Not a grove for prayer, not in the wild,
Just out of the way, but still a kind

Of peace—that’s fine. Cold, but filled with light,
Not much wind, the taps of that one soul
Still tasked with odd jobs. Crows in the limbs.