[wpaudio url=”/audio/june12/Hansen.mp3″ text=”listen to this poem” dl=”0″]
After the late harvest, you stroll
the fence line in waning light.
Cornstalks limp on black dirt.
Cobalt sky a harbinger of snow.

At the abandoned farmstead
ripe with wind-beaten boards,
boughs of windbreak pines,
like empty shells, sing of a coast
states away. You shut your eyes,
anchor yourself.

The first flakes on your face
are the spray from waves
hitting shoreline rocks.