by bg Thurston

After an hour of down dog
and forward fold, we drive

the narrow road home, sun
sinking in a molten sky

where strips of clouds stretch
and wrap around the horizon.

You wonder about squirrels
digging acorns under road salt.

I wonder whether poetry
will ever come back to me.

After the barn chores, feeding
the crew of cats and dogs

I sit waiting, a zazen of hope,
legs crossed and mind open

watching each breath rise
then fall back into the world

which is dark now, but I hear
the muses, quiet, then question

their single syllable that calls
out into the still and cold night.